

By bequest of 4 - 

William Lukens Shoemaker 






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£ if e in 3 i a i jk 


THE 


IMPROVISATOR!! 


PROM THE DANISH OP 

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 

M 


TRANSLATED 

BY MARY HOWITT. 





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30 * » 1 

NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
3 2 9 & 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN square. 

1863 . 







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TO THE 

CONFERENC E-C OUNCILLOR COLLIN 

AND 

HIS EXCELLENT WIFE, 

« 

IN WHOM I FOUND PARENTS; 

AND TO THEIR CHILDREN, 

IN WHOM I FOUND BROTHERS AND SISTERS; 

IN WHOSE HOME, A HOME, 

y BRING, WITH A FILIAL AND A FRATERNAL HEART, 

THIS THE BEST WHICH I POSSESS. 

' : THE AUTHOR. 

— _ » A 

• # 

* - / 




Gift 

W. L. biwemaker 
1 9 ’06 




1 


THE LIFE 


OF 

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


Hans Christian Andersen is one of those 
men who, from their earliest youth, have had 
to keep up a warfare with circumstances ; a 
man like Burns and Hogg, who seemed des- 
tined by Fate to end their lives unnoticed in a 
village, and yet through an instinctive sense 
of their destined pre-eminence in the beautiful 
regions of art and literature, and sustained by 
an irrepressible will, have made themselves a 
part of the great world. 

During my residence in Copenhagen, says 
Marmier, in the year 1837, one day a tall 
young man entered my room. His timid, and 
embarrassed, and somewhat awkward manner, 
might, perhaps, have displeased a fine lady, 
yet at the same time his friendly behaviour, 
and his open, honest countenance, at the first 
meeting, must have awakened sympathy and 
confidence. This was Andersen. At that very 
moment a volume of his works was lying on 
my table ; an acquaintance w T as thus soon 
made. Poetry is a sort of freemasonry ; they 
who render homage to it are related, although 
they may come from the opposite ends of the 
world ; they speak a word, make a sign, and 
immediately they know that they are brethren. 
They who live together impart to each other 
mutually the emotions of their hearts ; they 
who meet on foreign ground relate to each 
other, like pious pilgrims, by what paths they 
have wandered thither, and through what cities 
they have come. Thus, then, it happened that 
Andersen, after we had passed a few hours to- 
gether in conversation on poetry, which, more 
than any thing else, has the peculiarity of un- 
locking the heart and calling forth mutual con- 
fidence, told me of the adverse circumstances 
through which he had passed, and, at my re- 
quest that he would make me acquainted with 
the history of his life, communicated to me the 
following details : 

Andersen’s grand-parents were, at one time, 
well to do in the world, and even possessed of 
a farm in the country. All kind of misfor- 
tunes, however, befell them ; the worst of 
which was, that the husband lost his mind. 
The poor wife then removed to Odensee, and 
placed there her only son as apprentice with a 
shoemaker. The boy, full of activity, found 
the beginning of his life happier than his later 
years ; he employed his hours of leisure in 
reading Holberg, in making toys, and in com- 
posing music. 

When he was scarcely twenty, in the spring 
of 1804, he married a young girl who was quite 
as poor as himself ; and so great, indeed, was 
their poverty, that, in going to housekeeping, 
the young bridegroom could not afford to buy a 
bedstead, and contrived to obtain one in this 


manner. A Count was dead somewhere in 
their neighbourhood, and while he lay in state 
his coffin was supported on a wooden frame 
made for the purpose, and this, after the funer- 
al, being sold, was purchased by the husband- 
elect, who prepared it for future family use ; 
and yet he could not have made very great al- 
teration in it, for many years afterwards it 
might still be seen covered with its black 
cloth. 

Upon this frame, on which had rested the 
corpse of the noble Count, in his last splen- 
dour, lay, on the 2d of April, 1805, poor, but 
living, the first-born of his humble parents, 
Hans Christian Andersen. 

When the new-born child was taken to tho 
church to be baptized, it cried resoundingly, 
which greatly displeased the ill-tempered pas 
tor, who declared, in his passion, that “ tho 
thing cried like a cat at which his mother 
was bitterly annoyed. One of the god-parents, 
however, consoled her by the assurance, that 
the louder the child cried, the sweeter he would 
sing some day, and that pacified her. 

The father of Andersen was not without ed 
ucation ; the mother was all heart. The mar 
ried couple lived on the best terms with each 
other, and yet the husband did not feel himself 
happy ; he had no intercourse with his neigh- 
bours, but preferred keeping himself at home, 
where he read Holberg’s “ Comedies,” “ The 
Thousand - and - One Tales of the Arabian 
Nights,” and worked at a puppet-theatre for 
his little son, whom on Sundays he often took 
with him to the neighbouring woods, where the 
two commonly spent the whole day in quiet 
solitude with each other. 

The grandmother also, who was an amiable 
old lady, and who bore the misfortunes of he? 
family with Christian patience, had great influ- 
ence on the mind of the boy. She had been 
very handsome, was kind to every body, and, 
besides that," was scrupulously clean in her 
poor clothing. With a feeling of deep melan- 
choly, she would often tell how her grand- 
mother had been the daughter of a rich gentle- 
man of family in Germany, who lived in the 
city of Cassel ; that the daughter had fallen in 
love with a comic-actor, had left her parents 
secretly to marry him, and after that had sunk 
into poverty. 

u And now all her posterity must do penance 
for her sin !” sighed she. * 

Young Andersen was extremely attached to 
this good grandmother. She had to take care 
of a garden at the lunatic hospital, and here, 
among its sunny flowers, he spent most of the 
afternoons of his early childhood. The annual 
festival in the garden, when the fallen leave* 


4 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


were burnt, had for him an especial charm, al- 
though the presence of the insane ladies, a few 
of whom were allowed to wander about, terri- 
fied him greatly. Frequently one of the old 
nurses would fetch him into the house, and 
take him into the spinning-room, where all the 
old ladies would praise him for his eloquence, 
and would recompense him for it with tales 
and ghost-stories, which they related with 
"vondrous effect, so that certainly no child of 
his years ever heard more of suchlike histo- 
ries, neither could any child be more supersti- 
tious than he was. 

Among the earliest recollections of Ander- 
sen, is that of the residence of the Spaniards 
in Fyen, in the years 1808 and 1809. A sol- 
dier of an Austrian regiment one day took him 
in his arms, and danced with him amid tears 
of joy, which no doubt were called forth by the 
remembrance of a child left behind him at 
home, along the street, and pressed the image 
of the Madonna to his lips, which occasioned 
great trouble to his pious mother. 

In Odensee, at that time, many old festivi- 
ties were still in use, which made a deep im- 
pression upon the excitable temper of the boy ; 
the corporation went in procession, with their 
escutcheons, through the city ; the sailors also 
marched round in Lent, and the people made 
pilgrimages to the miracle-performing well of 
the holy Regisse. 

So passed on the first years of the youth of 
our poet. His father, in the meantime, read 
industriously in his Bible, but one day shut it 
with the words, “ Christ became a man like to 
us, but a very uncommon man !” Upon which 
his wife burst into tears, at what she called 
“ the blasphemy of her husband,” which made 
such a deep impression upon the son, that he 
prayed in solitude for the soul of his father. 
“ There is no other devil,” said he, afterwards, 
“ but that which a man bears in his own 
breast !” After which, finding his arm scratch- 
ed one morning when he awoke, probably by a 
nail, his wife told him that this was a punish- 
ment of the devil, who, at least, would shew 
him of his real existence. 

The unhappy temper of the father, however, 
increased from day to day : he longed to go 
forth into the world. At that time war was 
raging in Germany ; Napoleon was his hero ; 
and, as Denmark had now allied itself to France, 
he entered himself as a private soldier in a re- 
cruiting regiment, hoping that some time or 
other he should return’ as a lieutenant. The 
neighbours, however, thought that it was folly 
to let himself be shot to death for nothing at 
all. The corps, however, in which he served 
went no farther than Holstein ; the peace suc- 
ceeded, and before long the voluntary seldier 
sat down again in the concealment of his citi- 
zen-dwelling in Odensee. But his health had 
suffered. He awoke one morning delirious, 
and talked about campaigns and Napoleon. 

Young Andersen was at that time nine years 
old, and his mother sent him to the next village 
to ask counsel from a wise woman. 

“ Will my poor father die 1” inquired he, anx- 
iously. 

“ If thy father will die,” replied the sibyl, 
* thou wilt meet his ghost on thy way home.” 

It is easy to imagine what an impression 


this oracle would make upon the boy, who was 
timid enough without that ; it was, in fact, his 
only consolation, on his homeward way, that 
his father certainly knew how such an appari- 
tion would terrify his little son, and therefore 
he would not shew himself. He reached home 
without any unfortunate adventure, without 
seeing the ghost of his father ; and on the 
third day after that the sick man died. 

From this time young Andersen was left to 
himself ; the whole instruction which he re- 
ceived was in a charity-school, and consisted 
of reading, writing, and arithmetic, the two last 
very imperfectly. 

The poor boy, at this time, gained an en- 
trance into the house of the widow of the Pas- 
tor Bunkeflod, of Odensee, who died in the 
year 1805, and whose name, on account of 
some lyrical productions, is known in Danish 
literature. He was engaged to read aloud to 
the widow and her sister-in-law ; and here, for 
the first time, he heard the appellation poet, 
and saw with what love the faculty which made 
the dead a poet was regarded. This sunk 
deeply into his mind. He read some trage- 
dies, and then determined to write a comedy., 
and to become also a poet, as the deceased 
pastor had been. 

And now, actually, he wrote a true tragedy, 
for all the characters lost their lives in it ; and 
the dialogue was interlarded with many passa- 
ges of Scripture. His two first auditors re- 
ceived this first work of the young poet with 
unmingled applause ; and, before long, the re- 
port of it ran through the whole street, and 
every body wished to hear the tragedy of the 
witty Hans Christian. But here the applause 
was by no means unmingled ; most people 
laughed light heartily at it, whilst others ridi- 
culed him. This wounded the poor boy so 
much that he passed the whole night in weep- 
ing, and was only silenced by his mother’s se- 
rious admonition, that if he did not leave off 
such folly she would give him a good beating 
into the bargain. ■ Spite of the ill success of 
his first attempt, however, he now, unknown 
to any one, set about a new piece, in which a 
prince and a princess were introduced. But 
these lofty characters threw him into great 
perplexity, for he did not at all know how such 
noble people as these conversed, imagining, ot 
course, that it must be impossible for them to 
talk as other people did. At length it occurred 
to him to interweave German and French 
words into their conversation, so that the dig- 
nified language of these princely personages 
became a perfect gibberish, which, however, 
according to the opinion of the young author, 
had in it a something very uncommon and sub- 
lime. 

This masterpiece also was introduced to the 
knowledge of the neighbourhood, the result of 
which was, that not many days elapsed before 
he. was derided by the wild boys in the streets, 
who shouted, as he went by, u Look ! look ! 
there goes the comedy-writer !” 

But it was not alone the rude boys, but the 
schoolmaster also, who entirely mistook the 
genius which clearly betrayed itself, even ia 
suchlike productions ; for, one day, when young 
Andersen presented to him, as a birthday pres- 
ent, a garland, with which lie had twisted up a 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


5 


ftttle poem of his own writing, he blamed him 
for it ; and the only reward which the poor 
poet had for his first poetical attempt consisted 
of trouble and tears. 

In the meantime the worldly affairs of the 
mother grew worse and worse ; and, as the 
son of a neighbour earned money in some kind 
of manufactory, it was determined also that 
the good Hans Christian should be sent there. 
The old grandmother conducted him to the 
master of the manufactory, and wept right bit- 
ter tears, that the lot of her grandson should be 
so early that of care and sorrow. 

German workmen were principally employed 
in the manufactory, and to them the children 
used often to sing their Danish songs. The 
new-comer, Andersen, was desired to do so, 
and that he did willingly, because he knew that 
he could produce great effect with his singing : 
the neighbours had always listened when at 
home he sung in the garden ; and once, indeed, 
a whole party, who were assembled in the gar- 
den of the rich neighbour, had admired his 
beautiful voice, and loudly applauded him. Sim- 
ilar applause fell to his share in the manufac- 
tory. 

“ I can also act comedy !” said poor Ander- 
sen one day, encouraged by their approbation, 
and forthwith recited whole scenes from Hol- 
berg’s comedies. All went well for a time, 
and the other boys were compelled to do his 
work whilst he amused the workmen ; but pres- 
ently persecutions began, and he found himself 
so roughly handled, even by his former admi- 
rers, that he left the place, and flew back weep- 
ing to his mother, praying that he might never 
be sent there again. 

His prayer was granted, because, said his 
mother, he was not sent there for the sake of 
what he would get, but that he might be well 
cared for while she went out to work. 

“ The boy must go to the theatre !” many of 
her neighbours had said to her ; but, as she 
knew of no other theatre than that of strolling 
players, she shook her head thoughtfully, and 
determined rather to put her son apprentice to 
a tailor. 

Andersen was now twelve years old, was 
altogether quite at a loose end at home, and 
devoured the contents of every book which fell 
in his w 7 ay. His favourite reading was, how- 
ever, an old prose translation of Shakspeare. 
From this, w r ith little figures w T hich he made 
out of pasteboard, he performed the whole of 
“ King Lear” and “The Merchant of Venice.” 
He very rarely went to the playhouse, but, as 
lie w r as in favour with the man who carried out 
the bills, he obtained a copy of each of these 
from him, and then, seating himself in the 
evening before the stove, studied the names of 
the various actors, and thus supplied to every 
piece which w r as performed an imaginary text. 

Andersen’s passion for reading, and his beau- 
tiful voice, had, in the meantime, drawn upon 
him the attention of several of the higher fam- 
ilies of the city, wdio introduced him to their 
houses. The simple, childlike behaviour of 
the boy, his wonderful memory, and his sweet 
voice, gave to him, in fact, a something quite 
peculiar ; people spoke of it, and several houses 
were very soon open to him. But still, the 
first family which had noticed him, and had re- 


ceived him with so much sympathy, nay, ir> 
deed, w r ho had even introduced him to Prince 
Christian, remained his favourites. This fam- 
ily w T as that of Colonel Hoegh Guldborg, a 
man wdrose great accomplishments equalled his 
goodness of heart, and the brother of the w T ell- 
knowm poet of the same name. 

About this time his mother married a second 
time, and, as the stepfather would not at all 
interest himself about the education of the 
son, our young Andersen had still more liberty 
than hitherto. He had no playfellows, and 
often w r andered by himself to the neighbouring 
w 7 oods, or, seating himself at home, in a corner 
of the house, dressed up little dolls for his 
theatre, his mother thinking the while that, as 
he was destined to be a tailor, it was a good 
thing that he should practise sewing ; and the 
poor lad consoled himself by thinking that, if 
he really must be a tailor, he should find many 
beautiful pieces of cloth from which he could, 
on Sundays, make new dresses for his theatri- 
cal wardrobe. 

At length the time for his confirmation drew 
nigh, for which occasion he obtained the first 
pair of boots he ever had in his life ; and, in 
order that people might see them, he pulled 
them up over his trousers. Nor was this all 
his finery : an old sempstress was employed to 
make him a confirmation dress out of his de- 
ceased father’s greatcoat ; and with this his. 
festal attire was complete. Never before had 
Andersen been possessed of such beautiful 
clothes; his joy over w 7 hich was so great, that 
the thoughts of them even disturbed his devo- 
tion on the day of consecration, and caused 
him afterwards such reproaches of conscience, 
that he besought of God to forgive him such 
worldly thoughts ; and yet, at that very mo- 
ment, he could not help thinking about the 
beautiful creaking boots. 

After the conclusion of the confirmation fes- 
tival, it had been determined that Andersen 
was to begin his tailor-apprenticeship ; but he 
continually besought of his mother that she 
would permit him to go to Copenhagen, and 
visit the royal theatre there. He read to her 
the lives of celebrated men who had been quite 
as poor as himself, and assured her that he 
also w r ould some day be a celebrated man. Al- 
ready for several years had he hoarded up, in 
a little save-all, his spare money, and this had 
now grbw r n into wdiat seemed to him the inex- 
haustible sum of about thirty shillings of Eng- 
lish money. The sight of this unexpectedly 
large sum of money softened also the mater- 
nal heart, and she began to incline towards 
the Wishes of her son ; but yet, before she fully 
consented, she thought it best to consult a 
wise woman on his future prospects. The 
sibyl w T as accordingly fetched to the house, 
and, after she had read the cards, and studied 
the coffee-grounds, the oracle spoke these 
memorable words : 

“ Your son will become a. great man. The city 
of Odensec will be illuminated in his honour /” 

So good a prophecy of course removed the 
last impediment out of the way. 

“ Go, then, in God’s name !” said his mother. 

When, however, her neighbours represented 
to her how foolish it was to let the boy of four- 
teen years old set off to the A, * T - r s vhioh 


6 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


he did not know a single soul, she replied, that 
he let her have no rest, and that she was con- 
vinced he would soon come back again when 
he saw the great water which he would have 
to cross. 

Some one had mentioned to young Andersen 
a certain female dancer at tho royal theatre, as 
being a person of very great influence ; he ob- 
tained, therefore, from a man universally es- 
teemed in Odensee a letter of recommendation 
to this lady, and provided with this important 
paper, and his thirteen rix-dollars, he com- 
menced the journey on which depended his 
whole fate. His mother accompanied him to 
the gate of the city, and here he found waiting 
for him the good old grandmother, whose still 
beautiful hair had become gray within a few 
weeks. She kissed, with many tears, her be- 
loved grandson ; her grief had no words, and 
within a very short time the cold grave covered 
all her troubles. 

Andersen travelled as gratis passenger by 
the mail as far as Nyborg, and not until he 
was sailing across the Great Belt did he feel 
how forlorn he was in the world. The dis- 
comfort of a sea voyage, even though short, 
would make him feel this if nothing else did. 
As soon as he came on shore in Zealand, he 
stepped to a spot that lay apart, and, falling on 
nis knees, besought of God for help in his for- 
lorn condition. 

He rose up comforted, and went on now un- 
interruptedly for a day and a night, through cit- 
ies and villages, until, on Monday morning, the 
5th of September, 1819, he saw the towers of 
Copenhagen. He had travelled, as before, free 
of cost, through the good-nature or compassion 
of the drivers of the mail, and now, before he 
reached the gate of the city, was obliged, of 
course, to dismount, and, with his little bundle 
under his arm, entered the great city. 

The well-known Jews’ quarrel, which at that 
time extended from the south to the north of 
Europe, had broken out here the very evening 
before, and all was in commotion. 

His journey had cost him three rix-dollars, 
and, with the remaining ten in his pocket, the 
young adventurer took up his lodgings in a 
public house. His first ramble into the city 
was to the theatre, and with astonishment he 
surveyed the magnificent building, walked 
round it, and prayed fervently that it might 
soon open itself to him, and that he might be- 
come a skilful actor therein. At that time 
certainly he had no presentiment that ten years 
afterwards his dramatic work would be receiv- 
ed with applause, and that he would address 
the public for the first time. 

On the following day, dressed in his con- 
firmation suit, he betook himself, with his letter 
of introduction in his hand, to the house of the 
all-potential dancer. The lady let him wait a 
long time on the steps, and when at length he 
was permitted to enter her presence, his awk- 
ward and naive behaviour displeased her so 
much, that she regarded him as insane, more 
especially as she knew nothing of the gentle- 
man who had addressed the letter to her. 

After this unsatisfactory attempt, Andersen 
turned his steps towards the director of the 
theatre, requesting from him some appoint- 
ment ; but heie also his efforts were unsuc- 
cessfiL 


“ You are too thin for the theatre,” was the 
answer which he obtained. 

“ Oh !” replied Andersen, “ if you will in* 
sure me one hundred dollars, I will soon be- 
come fat !” 

But the director would not enter into ar- 
rangements on these terms, and dismissed the 
poor supplicant with the information that they 
were not in the habit oi engaging any but peo- 
ple of education. 

The poor lad went his way truly dejected in 
spirits ; he knew no creature who could give 
him counsel or comfort, no human being on 
whose breast he could w r eep. He thought on 
death, and the terror of this thought drove him 
back to God. 

“ When every thing,” said he, “ goes quite 
unfortunately, then God will help me ; it is 
written so in every book that I ever read — and 
in God I will put my trust !” 

He then went out and bought a ticket for 
the gallery for Paul and Virginia. The scene 
in the second act, where the lovers part, af- 
fected him so much that he burst into loud 
sobs, which drew upon him the attention of 
those who sat near to him. They spoke kindly 
to him and inquired who he was. Their friend- 
ly sympathy unlocked his whole heart, and he 
told all that related to himself — who he was, 
and whence he came, and that his love to the 
theatre was not less than Paul’s love to Vir- 
ginia, and that he certainly should become as 
unhappy as Paul if he did not obtain some little 
post in the theatre. They all looked at him in 
amazement. 

The next day brought no more cheering 
prospects, and his money had before long all 
melted away to one single dollar. What was 
he to do 1 Either he must work back his pas- 
sage in a vessel to his native city, and be 
laughed at there for his pains when he arrived, 
or else he must put himself here to some hand- 
icraft trade, which would be his fate if he re- 
turned to Odensee. 

A joiner at that moment wanted an appren- 
tice, and to him Andersen introduced himself, 
but here again it did not succeed ; after a short 
time poor Andersen was persecuted by the 
journeymen, who found in him an object of 
sport, and the end was like the working in the 
manufactory at Odensee ; and, with tears in 
his eyes, he parted from his master. 

As now with a heavy heart he was walking 
through the streets crowded by his fellow-be- 
ings, yet without the consciousness of having 
one friend among them, it occurred to him that 
nobody as yet had heard his fine voice. Full 
of this thought, he hastened to the house of 
Professor Siboni, the director of the Royal 
Conservatorium, where a large party was that ' 
day at dinner, among whom were Baggesen 
the poet, and the celebrated composer, Profes- 
sor Weyse. He knocked at the door, which 
was opened by a very lively young housemaid, 
and to her he related quite open-heartedly how 
forlorn and friendless he was, and how great 
was his desire to be engaged at the theatre, 
which the good-natured young serving- woman 
immediately retailed again to the company, 
who became curious to see the little adven- 
turer, as Baggesen called him. He was now 
ordered in, and was desired to sing before the 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


7 


company, and to declaim scenes from Holberg. 
Whilst he was so doing, he came to a passage 
which brought to his remembrance his own 
melancholy circumstances, and he burst into 
tears. The company applauded him. 

“I prophesy,” said Baggesen, “that ho will 
turn out something some day ; only don’t be- 
come vain when the public applauds thee !” 
said he to him. 

On this, Professor Siboni promised that he 
would cultivate Andersen’s voice, in order that 
he might make his debut at the Theatre Royal, 
and, highly delighted, the poor lad left that 
happy house. 

The next day he was ordered to go to Pro- 
fessor Weyse’s, who entered with the kindest 
sympathy into the forlorn condition of the poor 
youth, and who most nobly made a collection 
for him, which amounted to seventy dollars. 
After this, Professor Siboni took him to his 
house, and half a year was spent in elementary 
instruction. But Andersen’s voice was in its 
transition state ; and, by the end of this time, 
seemed entirely gone. Siboni, therefore, coun- 
selled him to return home and put himself to 
some handicraft trade. And once more poor 
Andersen stood again in the world as hopeless 
as at first. Yet, even in his apparent misfor- 
tune, there lay the seed of a better progress. 
He recalled to his memory, at this dark mo- 
ment of need, that there lived in Copenhagen 
a poet named Guldborg, the brother of the 
kind colonel in Odensee. To him Andersen 
bent his steps, and was kindly received by him. 
When Guldborg saw that the young native of 
Odensee could scarcely write a word correctly, 
he offered to give him instruction in the Danish 
and German tongues, and made him a present 
of the profits arising from a little work which 
he had just published. The noble-minded 
Weyse, KAhlau, and other respectable men, 
also extended to him a helping hand. 

Andersen now hired a lodging for himself in 
the city : he lived with a widow, who seemed 
reasonable in her charges ; and yet, after all, 
she was a hard, unfeeling woman, 'who was 
not ashamed to fleece the poor lad of twenty 
dollars for his month’s charges, although she 
allotted to him only a disused store-closet for 
his accommodation. He gave her, .however, 
the required sum, and received from her now 
and then a few half-pence when he did errands 
for her in the city. Yet nobody could feel 
themselves happier than the young Andersen 
in his present condition, for Professor Guld- 
borg had engaged the actor Lindgren to instruct 
him, whilst one of the solo-dancers had taken 
it into his head to make a dancer out of him. 
Thus he went daily to the dancing-school, 
made his appearance in one or two ballets, 
and, as his voice also was beginning to recover 
itself, he had to sing in chorus too. 

Thus then actually he had become one of 
the theatrical corps, and nothing was now want- 
ing but his dtbut and the acquisition of the fix- 
ed salary belonging to it. Always, however, the 
slave of superstition, he determined with him- 
self that, if now, on this new-year’s day, when 
he came to the theatre, he were able there to 
declaim a piece, he would hold it to be a cer- 
tain token that, in the course of the following 
vear, he should be advanced to the dignity of 


an actor. But, alas ! when he reached the 
house, he found that, on this day, it was closed, 
and only by accident a small side-door was 
open. Through this he crept, trembling as if 
he had something evil in his mind ; onward he 
went to the dark stage, where not a creature 
was to be seen, and falling down upon his knees 
on the lamp-stage, uttered the Lord’s Prayer, 
the only thing, and the best thing, which then 
offered itself to his mind, and, after that, re- 
turned home comforted. 

Pie always kept hoping that, by degrees, his 
fine voice would wholly again return to him ; 
yet that was scarcely to be expected, because 
the poor youth, through want of money, was 
almost always obliged to go with torn boots 
and wet feet ; neither had he any warm winter 
clothing. He was now already sixteen years 
old, yet he was quite a child ; so much so, that 
he spent the whole evening alone in his cham- 
ber, busied in making dolls for his little thea- 
tre, which he dressed from the patterns which 
he was in the habit of begging from the shops. 

In this manner wore away his best years for 
learning ; and many a sorrowful day had he 
yet to spend before a milder period arrived.. 
Guldborg practised him in the Danish style, 
and, before long, he produced a ryhmed trage- 
dy, which, from the facility and freedom of its 
language, won the attention of Ohlenschlager, 
Ingemann, and others. But no dtbut was per- 
mitted to him in the theatre ; they excused him 
from any further attendance at the dancing- 
school, or from singing in chorus, as it was 
wished, they said, that he should dedicate his 
time to scientific studies ; yet nobody did any 
thing for him in this respect, and it was as much 
as the poor lad could do to obtain enough to 
keep body and soul together. In his great need 
he wrote a new dramatic piece, in the hope 
that it would be accepted; but the hope was 
disappointed ; and, notwithstanding that, he 
persevered in a second and a third attempt. 

Just at this time the distinguished Confer- 
ence-councillor Collin, no less distinguished as 
an officer than universally esteemed for the 
goodness of his heart, became director of the 
theatre, and this wise and clear-sighted man 
soon perceived what slumbered in the young 
poet. It is true that he thought but little of 
his dramatic works ; but he went immediately 
to the king, and obtained permission from him 
that young Andersen should be sent at govern- 
ment charges to one of the learned schools in 
the provinces, and became from this moment a 
father to him in the noblest sense of the word. 

Andersen now went from dancing-lessons, 
romances, and dolls, to mathematics, Latin, 
and Greek ; and the youth of seventeen had to 
place himself among boys of ten years’ old to 
learn the first elements of these things. The 
school-rector in the meantime treated him with 
great severity, pronounced him to be devoid of 
all intellectual ability, and so greatly forgot 
himself, and mistook so entirely the duty of a 
public instructor, as to make the poor youth 
the object of ridicule among his schoolfellows, 
which produced in him such a state of mental 
suffering as within a short time must have been 
the death of him, had he not been rescued from 
this misery. Two years had thus been spent 
here, when one of the teachers went to Copen 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 


& 

hagen, and informed the Conference-councillor 
Collin how unkindly and negligently poor An- 
dersen was treated by the rector. No sooner 
was the good man made acquainted with this 
than he took Andersen immediately from the 
school, and placed him in the hands of a private 
tutor. A year after this, in 1828, Andersen 
was academical citizen of Copenhagen. 

Within a few months from this time appear- 
ed his first literary work in print, under the 
title of “ A Journey on foot to Amack” (a small 
island on which apart of Copenhagen is built), a 
humorous piece, which met with such great suc- 
cess, that within a very few days a second edi- 
tion was called for, and after that a third. The 
young poet was now received every where with 
the most flattering attention. The Danish 
translator of Shakspeare, Commander WulfF ; 
the celebrated naturalist, Orsted, received him 
at once as the friend of their house ; whilst he 
found quite a paternal home with the Collin 
family. 

“ The Journey to Amack” was succeeded by 
a dramatic work, an heroic vaudeville, entitled 
M Love on the Nicholas Tower,” which was 
brought on the stage and reviewed by Professor 
David. After this, Andersen passed his second 
academical examination, in which he obtained 
the highest honours. 

In a short time afterwards he published his 
first collection of grave and humorous poems, 
which met with great favour from the public. 
At school, Andersen had been so often accused 
of weakness, that afterwards he was frequently 
ashamed of his best feelings ; and not seldom, 
when he had written a poem from the full, no- 
ble emotions of his soul, he would,, as a sort of 
excuse for himself, write a parody upon it ; 
hence, in this volume, there are frequent in- 
stances of this kind, which displeased many, 
who saw that a mind thus directed would be 
injurious to itself as well as others. 

In the summer of 1830, Andersen made a 
journey through the Danish provinces, and, 
after his return, published a new collection of 
lyrical poems, under the title of “ Fancies and 
Sketches,” which showed that a great change 
had taken place in him ; and, as if he would 
avenge himself for his former self-ridicule, these 
poems all bore the impression of a quiet mel- 
ancholy. Many poems in this volume were 
translated into German ; and one poem in par- 
ticular, “ The Dying Child,” is said to be pos- 
sessed of such extraordinary pathos and beau- 
ty, that it has been translated into German, 
French, English, Swedish, and Greenlandish. 
The poor Greenlanders, indeed, sing it when 
out on their desolate seas in their fishing-ex- 
cursions ; and it is to be found printed in their 
song-books. 

This poem I have never met with ; indeed, 
I regret not being possessed of this volume of 
Andersen’s poems ; however, I will subjoin 
here a translation of one which Chamisso has 
rendered into German, and which is so full of 
tenderness and beauty, that I am sure the read- 
er will thank me for it : — 

* THE MILLER’S JOURNEYMAN. 

44 la this mill I was a servant, even when I was a boy ; 

And here have fled for over my days of youthful joy. ‘ 

The miller’s gentle daughter was kind and full of grace, 
Oae teemed to read her gentle heart whilst looking in her 
face. 


In the evening oft so trustful s^e bat down by my side ; 

We talked so much together, I could nothing from her hide ; 
She shared with me my trouble, in my pleasure she had part ; 
One only thing concealed I — the love within my heart. 

I think she might have seen it— if she had loved she would ; 
For there needs no word, no word at all, to make love under* 
stood ! 

I spoke unto my foolish heart, ‘ Forego it, and be still ! 

For thee, poor youth, such joy comes not — comes not, and 
never will !’ 

And whilst I thus was grieving she said, with tenderest tone, 
‘Ah, why art thou so altered, and why so pale hast grown I 
Thou must again be joyful, thy sorrow gives me pain !’ 

And thus, because I loved so much, did I my love restrain. 

One day, beside the rocky wall, she took by me her stand, 
Her eyes flashed clearer light, and she laid on mine her hand, 

‘ Now must thou wish me joy,’ she said, ‘must greet me &s 
a bride, 

And thou, thou art the first to whom I would my joy con 
fide !’ 

The while I kissed her hand I concealed from ner my face , 

I could not speak a single word, my tears flowed down apace ; 

It seemed as if had perished, in that same hour of woe, 

My thoughts and all my hopes in the deepest depths below ! 

That eve was the betrothal, and even I was there ; 

They set me in the chiefest place, beside the happy pair; 
They clinked their merry glasses, they sung their songs of 
glee ; 

I made myself seem happy, lest all the truth should see. 

Upon the following morning, ray head spun round and round ; 
How stupid and perplexed was I where all were happy found ! 
What wanted IT' one only thing! ’Twas wonderful, yet 
true, 

And they all loved me — she herself, and he, the lover too ! 

They were so kind unto me, but my woe they could not 
guess ! 

And as I saw them love and talk, so full of happiness, 

The wish to wander far and wide took hold upon my heart 5 
So I made my bundle ready — ’twas - right I should depart! 

Said I, ‘ Now let me see the world, and by its joy be blessed ! r 
But I only meant, forget the world that lies within my breast. 
She looked at me, and said, ‘ Oh, Heavens ! what’s come t» 
thee ! 

We love thee here so kindly, where canst thou better be V 

Then flowed forth fast my tears, this time it was but right, 

‘ One always weeps at parting !’ said she that parting night. 
They went with me for company some distance on my track — 
Now sick— sick unto death— they again have brought me 
back. 

With gentlest love and kindest care they tend line in the mill, 
And she with her beloved comes to me when she will. 

In July is the wedding ; and ever doth she say, 

That ! shall have a home with them, and soon again be gay. 

How dreamily I listen to the frothing waterwheel, 

And think beneath it I might find the oeace I cannot feel ! 
There know no longer sorrow, from every pain be free ! — 
They wish me to be happy, and thus then let it be !” 

This is a beautiful poem ! And in the spring, 
when the seas are open, and we can again 
have intercourse with the north, I hope to re- 
ceive Andersen’s poems, from which, if it be 
the pleasure of the public, I hope to give them 
other specimens. But let as now return to his • 
life. 

Andersen’s health was not strong, and, in 
1831, he made a journey into the Saxon Switz- 
erland, of which he published an account the 
same year. Neither were his pecuniary cir- 
cumstances flourishing ; like most authors, he 
had many anxieties ; and, at this time, to add 
to his other perplexities, he furnished, opera- 
text to the music of Bredahl, from Sir Walter 
Scott’s “ Bride of Lammermoor and for his old 
benefactor, Professor Weyse, “ Kenilworth*” 
from the same author. For these works the 
critics handled him severely. Yet, in the mean- 
time, Andersen proved how true a lyrical poet 
he was, by his “ Vignettes to the Danish poets,” 
and his “ Twelve Months of the Year.” About 
this time, however, there appeared “ Letters of 
a W’andering Ghost,” a satirical work, in which 
Andersen was held up to ridicule, among other 


LIFE OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


9 


imngs, for hit imperfect orthography. The 
poet's heart was wounded, his health was in- 
different, his circumstances unprosperous, and 
the public laugh was against him, rather on ac- 
count of his misfortunes than his faults ; but, 
as had always been the case through his life, 
light broke in when the darkness seemed deep- 
est, and, at the very moment when he was 
smarting under the lash of these jeering letters, 
he received a royal stipend to enable him to 
travel through Germany, France, and Italy. 
This stipend was granted to him on the recom- 
mendation of Ohlenschlager, Ingemann, Hei- 
berg, Orsted, and Thiele ; and it is very re- 
markable that all these gentlemen had recom- 
mended the poet, each for a peculiar qualifica- 
tion ; the one for his deep feeling, another for 
his wit, and a third for his humour. This mark 
of favour excited still more the envy of the ba- 
ser class of minds, and many anonymous at- 
tacks were made upon him, which wounded 
him so deeply, that, despairing of himself and 
his own powers, he set out on the journey, 
which was to be to him the noblest school. 

He went immediately to Paris, and it is sin- 
gular that the first letter which he received 
from his native land was merely a blank en- 
velope containing a newspaper, in which was 
a satirical poem on himself. Andersen made 
the acquaintance of the first literary men in 
Paris ; thence he went to Switzerland, where 
he was invited by a family with whom he was 
acquainted, and who were living in the valley 
of the Jura Mountains, to pay them a visit. 
This invitation he accepted, and under their 
roof, amid the deep solitudes of nature, he 
completed a dramatic poem, entitled “ Agnes 
and the Waterman, 1 ’ which he had begun in 
Paris. In this poem he poured out his whole 
soul, and hoped that his fellow-countrymen 
would not begrudge him the favour of his king 
when through it they became better acquaint- 
ed with him. 

On the anniversary of the day on which An- 
dersen, fourteen years before, a stranger and 
friendless, had entered the gate of Copenhagen, 
he wandered over the Simplon into that beau- 
tiful land which was to open to him a new 
spiritual world, and call forth the noblest char- 
acteristics of his soul. He went through Mi- 
lan, Genoa, and Florence, on to Rome, where 
Thorwaldsen, and all his countrymen there, 
received him with the greatest affection. 

His residence in Rome began like a sun- 
shiny summer day ; but while it yet was morn- 
ing clouds arose ; the poem which he had sent 
to Copenhagen, and which he hoped would 
warm the hearts of his countrymen towards 
him, was quite overlooked ; a new young poet 
had just arisen, who was the star of the mo- 
ment. His friends wrote to him of all these 
things, and candidly told him that they, like 
every one else, thought that he was past his 
best ; another letter brought him the sad intel- 
ligence of the death of his mother, the last of 
his family connexions. Andersen felt her 
death severely, and many poems which he 
wrote at that time express the dejection of his 
mind. Spite, however, of sadness and unto- 
ward events, the glorious treasures of art 
around him, and the fine country, within which 
he was a sojourner, with its bright southern 
B 


1 life, operated beneficially on his spirit. With 
that intense love for Italy which is peculiar to 
the most spiritual-minded inhabitants of the 
cold north, and, in some cases, has amounted 
to a passion like the attachment of the Swiss 
to their mountains, Andersen entered into the 
spirit of the life of the people, and has reflect 
ed all back to us with the most beautiful col 
ouring in his “ Improvisatore.” 

Thorwaldsen gratified the poet by the warm- 
est admiration of his last unfortunate produc- 
tion, “Agnes and the Waterman,” and from 
the great sculptor he received the utmost kind- 
ness Thorwaldsen told him how poor he also 
had been, and how, in his early artist-career, 
he had had to contend against envy, and how 
he also had been misunderstood. 

At this moment Andersen’s bitterest enemy, 
Herz, the author of the “ Letters of the Wan- 
dering Ghost,” arrived in Rome ; and as might 
often be the case, would literary enemies only 
condescend to a personal knowledge of each 
other, no sooner did these two men meet than 
they became fast friends. This was a bright 
event to the warm heart of Andersen. They 
travelled together to Naples, and ascended 
Vesuvius during a splendid eruption. They 
visited Paestum and the Grotto Azurra togeth- 
er ; of all of which we have such an exquisite 
reflex in the following work. 

The greatest harmony existed between these 
two Danish sons of the Muses, and exists still, 
we believe, to the present time. 

In the following year Andersen returned 
home through Venice, Vienna, and Munich, 
making in the two last cities the acquaintance 
of the first German poets and artists. Imme- 
diately after his return he published his novel, 
“ The Improvisatore,” which was received 
with universal applause — which was read and 
reread, and which the public never tired of 
reading. That a work of such singular origi- 
nality and beauty was universally admired was 
not at all remarkable ; but an extraordinary 
effect was produced, which, it seems to me, 
tells greatly to the honour of the Danish heart. 
Not only did Andersen’s friends, and the pub- 
lic generally, acknowledge the merit of his 
work, but they who had treated the poet with 
severity came now forward and offered him 
the hand of congratulation, and among them 
was the rector of the school, the hard-hearted 
teacher of the poor youth, who had taken all 
possible means to crush into the dust the tal- 
ent which God had given him. He now came 
forward, acknowledged his fault, and deplored 
it, which touched the good heart of Andersen 
not a little. And this is but one of the many 
instances of generous enthusiasm which was 
exciied by this beautiful work towards its au- 
thor. 

It does one’s heart good to hear of noble ac- 
tions, and I have written of these with pleas- 
ure. And now, dear reader, who hast gone 
with me thus far through the life of our author, 
to thee I commend the following story, which 
may be called a sermon preached from the 
text of his own life, and which seems to me to 
be full of great and good lessons. May it af- 
ford thee as much pleasure as it has afforded 
i me ! 

The Elms , Clapton, January 15, 1845. 




































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THE IMPROVISATORE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

Whoever has been in Rome is well acquaint- 
ed with the Piazza Barberina, in the great 
square, with the beautiful fountain, where the 
Tritons empty the spouting conch-shell, from 
which the water springs upwards many feet. 
Whoever has not been there, knows it, at all 
events, from copperplate engravings ; only it is 
a pity, that in these the house at the comer of 
the Via Felice is not given, that tall corner- 
house, where the water pours through three 
pipes out of the wall down into a stone basin. 
'That house has a peculiar interest for me ; it 
was there that I was born. If I look back to 
my tender youth, such a crowd of bright re- 
membrances meet me, that I scarcely know 
where to begin ; w r hen I contemplate the whole 
drama of my life, still less do I know what I 
should bring forward, what I should pass over 
as unessential, and what points may suffice to 
represent the whole picture. That which ap- 
pears attractive to me may not be so to a 
stranger. I will relate truly and naturally the 
great story, but then vanity must come into 
play — the wicked vanity, the desire to please. 
Already, in my childhood, it sprung up like a 
plant, and, like the mustard-seed of the Gospel, 
shot forth its branches towards heaven, and be- 
came a mighty tree, in which my passions 
builded themselves nests. 

One of my earliest recollections points there- 
to. I was turned six years old, and was play- 
ing in the neighbourhood of the church of the 
Capuchins, with some other children, who were 
all younger than myself. There was fastened 
on the chqrch-door a little cross of metal ; it 
was fastened about the middle of the door, and 
I could just reach it with my hand. Always 
when our mothers had passed by with us they 
had lifted us up that we might kiss the holy sign. 
One day, wffien we children were playing, one 
of the youngest of them inquired, “ Why the 
child Jesus did not come down and play with 
us 1” I assumed an air of wisdom, and replied, 
that he was really bound upon the cross. We 
went to the church door, and, although we found 
no one, we wished, as our mothers had taught 
us, to kiss him, but we could not reach up to it ; 
one, therefore, lifted up the other, but just as 
the lips were pointed for the kiss that one w'ho 
lifted the other lost his strength, and the kiss- 
ing one fell down just when his lips were about 
to touch the invisible child Jesus. At that mo- 
ment my mother came by, and when she saw 
our child’s-play, she folded her hands, and said, 
“ You are actually some of God’s angels ! And 
thou art mine own angel !” added she, and kiss- 
ed me. 

I heard her repeat to a neighbour what an 
innocent angel I was, and it pleased me great- 
ly, but it lessened my innocence — the mustard- 
seed of vanity drank in therefrom the first sun- 


beams. Nature had given to me a gentle t 
pious character, but my good mother made me 
aware of it ; she showed me my real and my 
imaginary endowments, and never thought that 
it is with the innocence of the child as with the 
basilisk, which dies when it sees itself. 

The Capuchin monk, Fra Martino, was my 
mother’s confessor, and she related to him 
what a pious child I was. I also knew several 
prayers very nicely by heart, although I did not 
understand one of them. He made very much 
of me, and gave me a picture of the Virgin 
weeping great tears, which fell, like rain-drops, 
down into the burning flames of hell, where the 
damned caught this draught of refreshment. 
He took me over with him into the convent, 
where the open colonnade, which inclosed with- 
in a square the little potato-garden, with the two 
cypress and orange-trees, made a very deep 
impression upon me. Side by side, in the open 
passages, hung old portraits of deceased monks, 
and on the door of each cell were pasted pic- 
tures from the history of the martyrs, which I 
contemplated with the same holy reverence as 
afterwards the masterpieces of Raphael and 
Andrew del Sarto. 

“ Thou art really a bright youth,’’ said he ; 
“ thou shalt now see the dead.” 

Upon this, he opened a little door of a gal- 
lery which lay a few steps below the colonnade. 
We descended, and now I saw round about me 
skulls upon skulls, sO placed one upon anothei 
that they formed walls, and therewith several 
chapels. In these w r ere regular niches, in 
which were seated perfect skeletons of the most 
distinguished of the monks, enveloped in their 
brown cowls, and with a breviary or a withered 
bunch of flowers in their hands. Altars, chan- 
deliers, and ornaments, were made of shoulder- 
bones and vertebrae, with bas-reliefs of human 
joints, horrible and tasteless as the whole idea. 

I clung fast to the monk, who whispered a 
prayer, and then said to me, 

“ Here also I shall some time sleep ; wilt 
thou thus visit me!” 

I answered not a word, but looked horrified 
at him, and then round about me upon the 
strange, grisly assembly. It was foolish te 
take me, a child, into this place. I was singu- 
larly impressed by the whole thing, and did not 
feel myself again easy until I came into his lit- 
tle cell, where the beautiful yellow oranges al- 
most hung in at the window, and I saw the 
brightly coloured picture of the Madonna, who 
was borne upwards by angels into the clear 
sunshine, while a thousand flowers filled the 
grave in which she had rested. 

This, my first visit to the convent, occupied 
my imagination for a long time, and stands yet 
with extraordinary vividness before me. This 
monk seemed to me quite a different being to 
any other person whom I knew ; his abode in 
the neighbourhood of the dead, who, in their 
brown cloaks, looked almost like himself, tfo& 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


U 

many liistories which he knew and could relate 
of holy men and wonderful miracles, together 
with my mother’s great reverence for his sanc- 
tity, caused me to begin thinking whether I too 
could not be such a man. 

My mother was a widow, and had no other 
means of subsistence titan what she obtained 
oy sewing, and by the rent of a large room 
wilich we ourselves had formerly inhabited. 
We lived now in a little chamber in the roof, 
and a young painter, Federigo, had the saloon, 
as we called it. He wa3 a life-enjoying, brisk 
young man, who came from a far, far country, 
where they knew nothing about the Madonna 
and the child Jesus, my mother said. He w 7 as 
from Denmark. I had at that time no idea that 
there existed more languages than one, and I 
believed, therefore, that he was deaf when he 
did not understand me, and, fox that reason, I 
spoke to him as loud as I could ; he laughed at 
me, often brought me fruit, and drew for me 
soldiers, horses, and houses. We soon be- 
came acquainted ; I loved him much, and my 
mother said many a time that he was a very 
upright person. 

In the meantime I heard a conversation one 
evening between my mother and the monk Fra 
Martino, which excited in me a sorrow r ful emo- 
tion for the young artist. My mother inquired 
if this foreigner would actually be eternally con- 
demned to hell. 

“ He and many other foreigners also,” she 
said, “ are, indeed, very honest people, who 
never do any thing wicked. They are good to 
the poor, pay exactly, and at the fixed time ; 
nay, it actually often seems to me that they are 
not such great sinners as many of us.” 

“ Yes,” replied Fra Martino, “ that is very 
true — they are often very good people but do 
you know how that happens 1 You see, the 
Devil, who goes about the world, knows- that 
the heretics will some time belong to him, and 
so he never tempts them ; and, therefore, they 
can easily be honest, easily give up sin ; on the 
contrary, a good Catholic Christian is a child 
of God, and, therefore, the Devil sets his tempt- 
ations in array against him, and we weak crea- 
tures are subjected. But a heretic, as one may 
say, is tempted neither of the flesh nor the 
Devil !” 

To this my mother could make no reply, and 
sighed deeply over the poor young man ; I began 
to cry, for it seemed* *to me that it was a cruel 
sin that he should be burned eternally — he who 
was so good, and who drew me such beautiful 
pictures. 

A third person who played a great part in my 
childhood’s life, was Uncle Peppo, commonly 
called “Wicked Peppo,” or “the King of the 
Spanish Steps,”* where he had his daily resi- 
dence. Born with two withered legs, which 
lay crossed under him, he had had from his ear- 
liest childhood an extraordinary facility in mo- 
ving himself forwards with his hands. These 
he stuck under a frame which was fastened at 
both ends to a board, and, by the help of this, 
he could move himself forward almost as easily 
as any other person with healthy and strong 

* These lead from tbe Spanish Place up to Monte Pincio, 

* broad flight of stone steps. These, which consist of four 
flights, are an especial resort of the beggars of Rome, and, 
from their locality, bear the name of the Spanish Steps. — 
Author's Note 


feet. He sat daily, as has been said, upon the 
Spanish Steps, never indeed begging, but ex- 
claiming, with a crafty smile, to every passer- 
by, “ bon giorno ?” and that even after the sun 
was gone down. 

My mother did not like him much, nay, in- 
deed, she was ashamed of the relationship, but, 
for my sake, as she often told me, she kept ud 
a friendship with him. He had that in his chest 
which we others must look after, and if 1 kept 
good friends with him I should be his only heir, 
if he did not give it to the church. He had, 
also, after his own way, a sort of liking for me, 
yet I never felt myself quite happy in his neigh- 
bourhood. Once I was the witness of a scene 
which awoke in me fear of him, and also ex- 
hibited his own disposition. Upon one of the 
lowest flights of stairs sat an old blind beggar, 
and rattled with his little leaden box that people 
might drop a bajocco therein. Many people 
passed by my uncle without noticing his crafty 
smile and the wavings of his hat ; the blind 
man gained more by his silence — they gave to 
him. Three had gone by, and now came the 
fourth, and threw him a small coin. Peppo 
could no longer contain himself ; I saw how he 
crept down like a snake, and struck the blind 
man in his face, so that he lost both money and 
stick. 

“Thou thief!” cried my uncle, “wilt thou 
steal money from me — thou who art not even a 
regular cripple! Cannot see ! # that is all his 
infirmity.! and so he will take my bread from 
my mouth !” 

I neither heard nor saw more, but hastened 
home with the flask of wine which I had been 
sent to purchase. On the great festival days I 
was always obliged to go with my mother to 
visit him at his own house ; we took with us 
one- kind of present or other, either fine grapes 
or preserved golden pippins, which were his 
greatest luxury. I was then obliged to kiss his 
hand and call him uncle ; then he smiled so 
strangely, and gave me a half-bajocco, always 
adding the exhortation that I should keep it to 
look at, not spend it in cakes, for when these 
were eaten I had nothing left, but that if I kept 
my coin I should alvvays have something. 

His dwelling was dark and dirty : in one little 
room there was no window at all, and in the 
other it was almost up to the ceiling with bro- 
ken and patched-up panes. Of furniture there 
was not one article, except a great wide chest, 
which served him for a bed, and two tubs, in 
which he kept his clothes. I always cried when 
I had to go there ; and true it is, however much 
my mother persuaded me to be very affection- 
ate towards him, yet she always made use of 
him as a bugbear when she would punish me ; 
she said then that she would send me to my 
dirty uncle, that I should sit and sing beside 
him upon the stairs, and thus do something use 
ful, and earn a bajocco. But I knew that she 
never meant so ill by me I was the apple of 
her eye. • , 

On the house of our’opposite neighbour there 
was an image of the Virgin, before which a 
lamp was always burning. Every evening when 
the bell rang the Ave Maria, I and the neigh- 
bours’ children knelt before it, and sang in hon- 
our of the mother of God, and the pretty child 
Jesus, which they had adorned with ribands 


THE IMPRO VISATORE. 


13 


beads, and silver hearts. By the wavering 
1 lamp-light it often seemed to me as if both 
mother and child moved and smiled upon us. 
I sang with a high, clear voice ; and people said 
that I sang beautifully. Once there stood an 
English family and listened to us ; and, when 
we rose up from our knees, the gentleman gave 
me a silver piece ; “ it was,” my mother said, 
“■‘because of my fine voice.” But how much 
distraction did this afterwards cause me ! I 
thought no longer alone on the Madonna when 
I sung before her image ; no ! I thought, did 
any one listen to my beautiful singing ; but al- 
ways when I thought so, there succeeded a 
burning remorse. I was afraid that she would 
be angry with me ; and I prayed right innocent- 
ly that she would look down upon me, poor 
child ! 

The evening-song was, in the meantime, the 
only point of union between me and the other 
neighbours’ children. I lived quietly, entirely 
in my own self-created dream-world ; I lay for 
hours upon my back, with my face to the open 
window, looking out into the wonderful, glori- 
ously blue, Italian heaven, into the play of col- 
ours at the going down of the sun, when the 
clouds hung with their violet-hued edges upon 
a golden ground. Often I wished that I could 
fly far beyond the Quirinal and the houses, to 
the great pine-trees, which stood like black 
shadow-figures against the fire-red horizon. I 
had quite another scene on the other side of 
our room : there lay our own and our neigh- 
bours’ yards, each a small, narrow space, in- 
closed by tall houses, and almost shut in from 
above by the great wooden balconies. In the 
middle of each yard there was a well inclosed 
with masonry, and the space between this and 
the walls of the houses was not greater than to 
admit of one person moving round. Thus, from 
above I looked properly only into two deep 
wells ; they were entirely overgrown with that 
fine plant which we call Venus’-hair, and which, 
hanging down, lost itself in the dark depth. It 
was to me as if I could see deep down into the 
earth, where my fancy then created for herself 
the strangest pictures. In the meantime, my 
mother adorned that window with a great rod, 
to show me what fruit grew for me there, that 
I might not fall down and get drowned. 

But I will now mention an occurrence which 
might easily have put an end to my life’s his- 
tory before it had come into any entanglement. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE VISIT TO THE CATACOMBS — I BECOME A CHOR- 
ISTER THE LOVELY ANGEL-CHILD THE IM- 

PROVISATORS. 

Our lodger, the young painter, took me with 
him sometimes on his little rambles beyond the 
gates. I did not disturb him whilst he was 
making now and then a sketch ; and when he 
had finished he amused himself with my prattle, 
for he now understood the language. 

Once before, I had been with him to the curia 
Jiostilia, deep down into the dark caves where, 
in ancient days, wild beasts were kept for the 
games, and where innocent captives were 
thrown to ferocious hysenas and lions. The 


dark passages ; the monk who conducted us in, 
and continually struck the red torch against the 
walls ; the deep cistern in which the water 
stood as clear as a mirror— yes, so clear, that 
one was obliged to move it with the torch to 
convince one’s self that it was up to the brim, 
and that there was no empty space, as by its 
clearness there seemed to be — all this excited 
my imagination. Fear, I felt none, for I was 
unconscious of danger. 

“Are we going to the caverns'!” I inquired 
from him, as I saw at the end of the street the 
higher part of the Colosseum. 

“ No, to something much greater,” replied 
he ; “ where thou shalt see something ! And 
I will paint thee, also, my fine fellow !” 

Thus wmndered we farther, and ever farther, 
between the wiiite walls, the inclosed vine- 
yards, and the old ruins of the baths, till we 
were out of Rome. The sun burned hotly, and 
the peasants had made for their wagons roofs 
of green branches, under wiiicli they slept, while 
the horses, left to themselves, went at a foot’s 
pace, and ate from the bundle of hay which 
hung beside them for this purpose. At length 
we reached the grotto of Egeria, in which we 
took our breakfast, and mixed our wine with 
the fresh water that streamed out from between 
the blocks of stone. The walls and vault of the 
whole grotto w r ere inside covered over with the 
finest green, as of tapestry, woven of silks and 
velvet, and round about the great entrance hung 
the thickest ivy, fresh and luxuriant as the vine 
foliage in the valleys of Calabria. 

Not many paces from the grotto stands, or 
rather stood, for there are now only a few re- 
mains of it left, a little, and wholly desolate 
house, built above one of the descents to the 
catacombs. These were, as is well known, in 
ancient times, connecting links between Rome 
and the surrounding cities ; in later times, how- 
ever, they have in part fallen in, and in part 
been built up, because they served as conceal- 
ment for robbers and smugglers. The entrance 
through the burial-vaults in St. Sebastian's 
Church, and this one through the desolate 
house, were then the only two in existence ; 
and I almost think that we were the last who 
descended by this, for, shortly after our adven- 
ture, it also was shut up ; and only the one 
through the church, under the conduct of a 
monk, remains now open to strangers. 

Deep below, hollowed out of the soft puzzo- 
lan earth, the one passage crosses another. 
Their multitude, their similarity one to anoth- 
er, are sufficient to bewilder even him who 
knows the principal direction. I had formed 
no idea of the whole, and* the painter felt so 
confident, that he had no hesitation in taking 
me, the little boy, down with him. He lighted 
his candle, and took another with him in his 
pocket, fastened a ball of twine to the opening 
where we descended, and our wandering com- 
menced. Anon the passages were so low that 
I could not go upright; anon they elevated 
themselves to lofty vaults, and, where the one 
crossed the other, expanded themselves into 
great quadrangles. We passed through the 
Rotunda with the small stone altar in the mid- 
dle, where the early Christians, persecuted by 
the Pagans, secretly performed their worship. 
Federigo told me of the fourteen popes, and 


14 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


the many tnousand martyrs, who here lie bu- 
ried : we held the light against the great cracks 
in the tombs, and saw the yellow bones with- 
in.* We advanced yet some steps onward, 
and then came to a stand, because we were at 
the end of the twine. The end of this Federi- 
go fastened to his button-hole, stuck the candle 
among some stones, and then began to sketch 
the deep passage. I sat close beside him upon 
one of the stones ; he had desired me to fold 
my hands and to look upwards. The light was 
nearly burnt out, but a whole one lay hard by ; 
besides which he had brought a tinder-box, by 
the aid of which he could light the other in 
case this suddenly went out. 

My imagination fashioned to itself a thou- 
sand wonderful objects in the infinite passages 
which opened themselves, and revealed to us 
an impenetrable darkness. All was quite still, 
the falling waterdrops alone sent forth a mo- 
notonous sound. As I thus sat, wrapped in my 
own thoughts, I was suddenly terrified by my 
friend the painter, who heaved a strange sigh, 
and sprang about, but always in the same spot. 
Every moment he stooped down to the ground, 
as if he would snatch up something, then he 
lighted the larger candle and sought about. I 
became so terrified at his singular behaviour, 
that I got up and began to cry. 

“For God’s sake, sit still, child !” said he — 
“ for God in heaven’s sake !” and again he be- 
gan staring on the ground. 

“I will go up again!” I exclaimed — “I will 
not stop down here !” I then took him by the 
hand and strove to draw him with me. 

“Child! child! thou art a noble fellow!” 
said he ; “ I will give thee pictures and cakes 
— there, thou hast money !” And he took his 
purse out of his pocket, and gave me all that 
was in it : but I felt that his hand was ice- 
cold and that he trembled. On this I grew 
more uneasy, and called my mother; but now 
he seized me firmly by the shoulder, and, sha- 
king me violently, said — “ I will beat thee if 
thou art not quiet !” Then he bound his pock- 
et-handkerchief round my arm, and held me 
fast, but bent himself down to me the next mo- 
ment, kissed me vehemently, called me his 
dear little Antonio, and whispered, “ Do thou 
also pray to the Madonna !” 

“Is the string lost?” I asked. 

“We will find it — we wall find it!” he re- 
plied, and began searching again. In the mean- 
time the lesser light was quite burnt out, and 
the larger one, from its continual agitation, 
melted and burnt his hand, which only increas- 
ed his distress. It would have been quite im- 
possible to have found our way back without 
the string, every step would only have led us 
deeper down where no one could save us. 

After vainly searching, he threw himself 
upon the ground, cast his arm around my neck, 
and sighed, “ Thou poor child !” I then wept 
bitterly, for it seemed to me that I never more 
should reach my home. He clasped me so 
. closely to him as he lay on the ground that my 

* The monumental stonea here are without any orna- 
ment ; on the contrary, one finds in the catacombs at Na- 
ples the images of saints and inscriptions, but all very in- 
differently done. On the graves of the Christians a fish is 
figured, in the Greek name of which occur the initial let- 
ters of Clr/aovg Xpiorog, Qeov viog ouTrjp) Jesus Christ, the 
Son of God, the Redeemer. — Author's Note. 


hand slid under him. I involuntarily grasped 
the sand, and found the string between my 
fingers. 

“ Here it is !” I exclaimed. 

He seized my hand, and became, as it were, 
frantic for joy, for our life actually hung upon 
this single thread. We were saved. 

Oh, how warmly beamed the sun, how blue 
was the heaven, how deliciously green the 
trees and bushes, as we came forth into the 
free air ! Poor Federigo kissed me yet again, 
drew his handsome silver watch out of his 
pocket, and said, “ This thou shalt have !” 

I was so heartily glad about this, that I quite 
forgot all that had happened ; but my mother 
could not forget it, when she had heard it, and 
would not again consent that Federigo should 
take me out with him. Fra Martino said also 
that it was only on my account that we were 
saved, that it was to me to whom the Madonna 
had given the thread — to me, and not to the 
heretic Federigo ; that I was a good, pious 
child, and must never forget her kindness and 
mercy. This, and the jesting assertion of 
some of our acquaintance, that I was born to 
be of the priesthood, because, with the excep- 
tion of my mother, I could not endure women, 
instilled into her the determination that I should 
become a servant of the church. I do not my- 
self know why, but I had an antipathy to all 
women, and, as I expressed this unhesitating* 
ly, I was bantered by every girl and woman 
who came to my mother’s. They all would 
kiss me : in particular was there a peasant girl, 
Mariuccia, who by this jest always brought 
tears to my eyes. She was very lively and 
waggish, and maintained herself by serving as 
a model, and always appeared, therefore, in 
handsome, gay dresses, with a large white 
cloth upon her head. She often sat for Fede- 
rigo, and visited my mother also, and then al- 
ways told me that she was my bride, and that 
I was her little bridegroom, who must and 
should give her a kiss ; I never would do so, 
and then she took it by force. 

Once when she said that I cried childishly, 
and behaved myself exactly like a child that 
still sucked, and that I should be suckled like 
any other baby, I flew out, down the steps, 
but she pursued and caught me, held me be- 
tween her knees, and pressed my head, which 
I turned away with disgust, ever closer and 
closer to her breast. I tore the silver arrow 
out of her hair, which fell down in rich abun- 
dance over me and over her naked shoulders. 
My mother stood on the hearth, laughed, and 
encouraged Mariuccia, whilst Federigo, unob- 
servedly, stood at the door, and painted the 
whole group. 

“ I will have no bride, no wife !” I exclaimed 
to my mother ; “ I will be a priest, or a Capa- 
chin, like Fra Martino !” 

The extraordinary meditations into which I 
was wrapt for whole evenings also were re- 
garded by my mother as tokens of my spiritual 
calling. I sat and thought then what castles 
and churches I would build, if I should become 
great and rich ; how I then would drive like 
the cardinals in red carriages, with many gold- 
liveried servants behind ; or else I framed a 
new martyr-story out of the many which Fra 
Martino had related to me. T was, of course, the 


THE IMPROVES A TORE. 


15 


hero of these, and through the help of the Ma- 
donna, never felt the pangs which were inflict- 
ed upon me. But, especially, had I a great de- 
sire to journey to Federigo’s home, to convert 
the people there, that they also might know 
something of grace. 

Whether it was through the management of 
my mother or Fra Martino I know not, but it 
is enough that my mother, early one morning, 
arrayed me in a little kirtle, and drew over it 
an embroidered shirt, which only reached to 
the knees, and then led me to the glass that I 
might see myself. I was now a chorister in 
the Capuchin Church, must carry the great 
censer of incense, and sing with the others be- 
fore the altar. Fra Martino instructed me in 
the whole duty. Oh, how happy all this made 
me ! I was soon quite at home in that little 
but comfortable church, knew every angel’s' 
head in the altar-piece, every ornamental scroll 
upon the pillars, could see even with my eyes 
shut the beautiful St. Michael fighting with the 
dragon,* just as the painter had represented 
him, and thought many wonderful things about 
the death’s heads carved in the pavement, with 
the green ivy wreaths around the brow. 

On the festival of All Saints, I was down in 
the Chapel of the Dead, where Fra Martino 
had led me when I was with him for the first 
time in the convent. All the monks sang mass- 
es for the dead, and I, with two other boys of 
my own age, swung the incense-breathing cen- 
ser before the great altar of skulls. They had 
placed lights in the chandeliers made of bones, 
new garlands were placed around the brows of 
■»he skeleton-monks, and fresh bouquets in their 
hands. Many people, as usual, thronged in ; 
they all knelt, and the singers intoned the sol- 
emn Miserere. I gazed for a long time on the 
pale, yellow skulls, and the fumes of the in- 
cense which wavered in strange shapes be- 
tween them and. me, and every thing began to 
spin round before my eyes ; it was as if I saw 
every thing through a large rainbow ; as if a 
thousand prayer-bells rung in my ear ; it seem- 
ed as if I was borne along a stream ; it was 
unspeakably delicious — more I know not ; con- 
sciousness left me — I was in a swoon. 

The atmosphere, made oppressive byjcrowds 
of people, and my excited imagination, occa- 
sioned this fainting-fit. When I came to my- 
self again, I was lying in Fra Martino’s lap, 
under the orange-tree in the convent garden. 

The confused story which I told of what I 
seemed to have seen, he and all the brethren 
explained as a revelation : the holy spirits had 
floated over me, but I had not been able to bear 
the sight of their glory and their majesty. This 
occasioned me before long to have many ex- 
traordinary dreams, and which, put together, 
I related to my mother, and she again com- 
municated to her friends, so that I became 
daily more and more to be regarded as a child 
of God. 

In the meantime, the happy Christmas ap- 
proached. Pifferari, shepherds from the mount- 
ains, came in their short cloaks, with ribands 
around their pointed hats, and announced with 


* The celebrated picture of St. Michael, the arch-angel, 
who. with the beauty of youth, and with great wings, sets 
his foot «pon and piercea the head of the DeviL — Author’s 
Note. 


the bagpipe, before every house where there 
stood an image of the Virgin, that the time was 
at hand in which the Saviour was born. I was 
awoke every morning by these monotonous, 
melancholy tones, and my first occupation then 
was to read over my lesson, for I was one of 
the children selected, “ boys and girls,” who, 
between Christmas and New-year, were to 
preach in the church ara coeli , before the image 
of Jesus. 

It was not I alone, my mother, and Mariuc- 
cia, who rejoiced that I, the boy of nine, should 
make a speech, but also the painter Federigo, 
before whom I, without their knowledge, had 
had a rehearsal, standing upon a table ; it would 
be upon such a one, only that a carpet would 
be laid over it, that we children should be pla- 
ced in the church, where we, before the assem- 
bled multitudes, must repeat the speech, which 
we had learned by rote, about the bleeding 
heart of the Madonna, and the beauty of the 
child Jesus. 

I knew nothing of fear, it was only with joy 
that my heart beat so violently as I stepped for- 
ward, and saw all eyes directed to me. That 
I, of all the children, gave most delight, seem- 
ed decided ; but now there was lifted up a lit- 
tle girl, who was of so exquisitely delicate a 
form, and who had, at the same time, so won- 
derfully bright a countenance, and such a me- 
lodious voice, that all exclaimed aloud that she 
was a little angelic child. Even my mother, 
who would gladly have awarded to me the 
palm, declared aloud that she was just like one 
of the angels in the great altar-piece. The 
wonderfully dark eyes, the raven-black hair, the 
childlike, and yet so wise expression of coun- 
tenance, the exquisitely small hands — nay, it 
seemed to me that my mother said too much of 
all these, although she added that I also was 
an angel of God. 

There is a song about the nightingale, which, 
when it was quite young, sat in the nest and 
picked the green leaves of the rose, without 
being aware of the buds which were just be- 
ginning to form ; months afterwards, the rose 
unfolded itself, the nightingale sang only of it, 
flew among the thorns, and wounded itself. 
The song often occurred to me when I became 
older, but in the church, ara coeli , I knew it not, 
neither my ears nor my heart knew it ! 

At home, I had to repeat before my mother, 
Mariuccia, and many friends, the speech which 
I had made, and this flattered my vanity not a 
little ; but they lost, in the meantime, their in- 
terest in hearing it earlier than I mine in re- 
peating it. In order now to keep my public in 
good humour, I undertook, out of my own head, 
to make a new speech. But this was rather a 
description of the festival in the church than a 
regular Christmas speech. Federigo was the 
first who heard it ; and, although he laughed, 
it flattered me still, when he said that my 
speech was in every way as good as that which 
Fra Martino had taught me, and that a poet lay 
hidden in me. This last remark gave me 
much to think about, because I could not un- 
derstand it ; yet, thought I to myself, it must 
be a good angel, perhaps the same which shows 
to me the charming dreams, and so many beau- 
tiful things when I sleep. For the first time 
during the summer, chance gave me a clear 


16 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


notion of a poet, and awoke new ideas in my 
own soul-world. 

It but very rarely happened that my mother 
left the quarter of the city in which we lived ; 
therefore it seemed to me like a festival when 
she said to me, one afteriroon, that we would 
go and pay a visit to a friend of hers in Tras- 
tevere.* I was dressed in my holiday suit, 
and the gay piece of silk which I usually wore 
instead of a waistcoat was fastened with pins 
over the breast, and under my little jacket ; my 
neckerchief was tied in a great bow, and an 
embroidered cap was on my head. I was par- 
ticularly elegant. 

When, after the visit we returned home, it 
was somew r hat late, but the moon shone glori- 
ously, the air was fresh and blue, and the cy- 
presses and pines stood with wonderfully sharp 
outlines upon the neighbouring heights. It was 
one of those evenings which occur but once in 
a person’s life, w T hich, without signalising itself 
by any great life-adventure, yet stamps itself 
in its whole colouring upon the Psyche- wings. 
Since that moment, whenever my mind goes 
back to the Tiber, I see it ever before me as 
upon this evening ; the thick yellow water lit 
up by the moonbeams, the black stone pillars 
of the old ruinous bridge, which, with strong 
shadow, lifted itself out of the stream where 
the great mill-wheel rushed round, nay, even 
the merry girls who skipped past with the tam- 
bourine and danced the saltarello.-f; 

In the streets around Santa Maria della Ro- 
tunda, all was yet life and motion butchers 
and fruit-women sat before their tables, on 
which lay their wares among garlands oflaurel, 
and with lights burning in the open air. The 
fire flickered under the chestnut-pans, and the 
conversation was carried on with so much 
screaming and noise, that a stranger w T ho did 
not understand a word might have imagined 
it to be some contention of life and death. An 
old friend whom my mother met in the fish- 
market, kept us talking so long, that people 
were beginning to put out their lights before we 
set off again, and as my mother accompanied 
her friend to her door it had now become as 
silent as death in the street, even in the Corso ; 
but when we came into the square di Trevi, 
where there is the beautiful cascade, it seemed 
on the contrary quite cheerful again. 

The moonlight fell exactly upon the old pal- 
ace, where the water streams out between the 
masses of foundation-rock which seem loosely 
thrown together. Neptune’s heavy stone-man- 
tle floated in the w r ind, as he looked out above 
the great waterfall, on each side of which 
blooming Tritons guided sea-horses. Beneath 
these the great basin spread itself out, and 


* That part of Rome which lies on the higher banks of 
the Tiber. — Author's Note. 

t A popular Roman dance to a most monotonous tune. 
It is danced by one or two persons, yet without these com- 
ing in contact with each other; most frequently by two 
men, or two women, who, with a quick, hopping step, and 
with increasing rapidity, move themselves in a half-circle. 
The arms are as violently agitated as the legs, and change 
their position incessantly, with all that natural grace pe- 
culiar to the Roman people. Women are accustomed in 
this dance to lift up the petticoats a little, or else to beat 
time themselves upon the tambourine : this, otherwise, is 
4one by a third person on the monotonous drum— the chan- 
ges in the time alone consisting in the greater or less ra- 
pidity with woich the strokes follow «tne an >ther. — Author's 


upon the turf around it rested a crowd of peaa 
ants, stretching themselves in the moonlight 
Large, quartered melons, from which streamec 
the red juice, lay around them. A little square- 
built fellow', whose whole dress consisted of a 
shirt and short leather breeches, which hung 
loose and unbuttoned at the knees, sat with a 
guitar, and twanged the strings merrily. Now 
he sang a song, now he played, and all the peas- 
ants clapped their hands. My mother remain- 
ed standing ; and I now listened to a song 
which seized upon me quite in an extraordinary 
way, for it was not a song like any other which 
I had heard. No ! he sang to us of what we 
saw and heard, we were ourselves in the song, 
and that in verse, and with melody. He sang, 
“ How gloriously one can sleep with a stone 
under the head, and the blue heaven for a cov- 
erlet, whilst the two Pifferari blow their bag- 
pies ;” and with that he pointed to the Tritons 
who were blowing their horns, “how the whole 
company of peasants who have shed the blood 
of the melon will drink a health to their sweet- 
hearts, who now are asleep, but see in dreams 
the dome of St. Peter’s, and their beloved, who 
go wandering about in the Papal city.” “Yes, 
we will drink, and that to the health of all girls 
whose arrow has not yet expanded.* Yes,” 
added he, giving my mother a little push in the 
side, “ and to mothers who have for their 
sweethearts lads on whose chins the black 
down has not yet grown !” 

“ Bravo !” said my mother, and all the peas- 
ants clapped their hands and shouted, “ Bravo, 
Giacomo ! bravo !” 

Upon the steps of the little church we dis- 
covered, in the meantime, an acquaintance — 
our Federigo, who stood with a pencil and 
sketched the whole merry moonlight piece. 
As we went home he and my mother joked 
about the brisk Improvisatore, for so I heard 
them call* the peasant who sung so charmingly. 

“ Antonio,” said Federigo to me, “ thou, also, 
shouldst improvise ; thou art truly, also, a little 
poet ! Thou must learn to put thy pieces into 
verse.” 

I now understood what a poet was ; namely, 
one who could sing beautifully that which he 
saw apd felt. That must, indeed, be charming, 
thought I, and easy, if I had but a guitar. 

The first' subject of my song was neither 
more nor less than the shop of the bacon-dealer 
over the way. Long ago, my fancy had already 
busied itself with the curious collection of his 
wares, which attracted in particular the eyes of 
strangers. Amid beautiful garlands of laurel 
hung the white buffalo-cheeses, like great os- 
trich eggs ; candles, wrapped round with gold 
paper, represented an organ ; and sausages, 
which were reared up like columns, sustained 
a Parmesan cheese, shining like yellow amber. 
When in an evening the whole was lighted up, 
and the red glass-lamps burned before the 
image of the Madonna in the wall among sausa- 
ges and ham, it seemed to me as if I looked 
into an entirely magical world. The cat upon 
the shop-table, and the young Capuchins, who 
always stood*so long cheapening their purchases 
with the signora, came also into the poem, 

* The arrow which the peasant women wear in their hair 
has a ball at the end if they are froe ; but, if l)etrothed or 
married has an eipanded head. — Author's Noit. 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


IT 


which I pondered upon so long, that I could re- 
peat it aloud and perfectly to Federigo, and 
which, having won his applause, quickly spread 
itself over the whole house, nay, even to the 
wife of the bacon-dealer herself, who laughed 
and clapped her hands, and called it a wonder- 
ful poem, — a Divina Comedia di Dante ! 

From this time forth every thing was sung. 
I lived entirely in fancies and di earns. In the 
church, when I swung the censer, in the streets 
amid the rolling carriages and screaming tra- 
ders, as' well as in my little bed beneath the 
image of the Virgin and the holy-water vessel. 
In the winter-time, I could sit for whole hours 
before our house, ; •1 look into the great fire in 
the street, where i. c smith heated his iron, and 
the peasants warmed themselves. I saw in the 
red fire a world glowing as my* own imagina- 
tion. I shouted for joy, when in winter the 
snow of the mountains sent down to us such 
severe cold, that icicles hung from the Triton in 
the square ; pity that it was so seldom. Then, 
also, were the peasants glad, for it was to them 
a sign of a fertile year ; they took hold of each 
other’s hands, and danced in their great woollen 
cloaks round about the Triton, whilst a rainbow 
played in the high-springing- water. 

But I loiter too long over the simple recollec- 
tions of my childhood, which cannot have for a 
stranger the deep meaning, the extraordinary 
attraction, which they have for me. Whilst I 
recall, whilst I hold fast every single occurrence, 
it seems as if I again lived in the whole. 

“ My childhood’s heart was to my dreams a sea 
Of music, whereon floated picture-boats !” 

I will now hasten on to the circumstance 
which placed the first hedge of thorns between 
me and the paradise of home — which led me 
among strangers, and w T hich contained the germ 
of my whole future. 


• CHAPTER III. 

THE FLOWER-FEAST AT GENZANO.* 

It was in the month of June, and the day of 
the famous flower-feast which was annually 
celebrated at Genzano approached. My mother 
and Mariuccia had a mutual friend there, who, 
with her husband, kept a public-house. f They 
had for many years determined to go to this 
festival, but there was 'always something or 
other to prevent it ; this time there was no- 
thing. We were to set off the day before the 
flower-feast, because it was a long way ; I 
could not sleep for joy through the whole night 
preceding. 

Before the sun had risen, the vitturino drove 
up to the door, and we rolled away. Never 
before had I been among the mountains. Ex- 
pectation, and joy of the approaching festival, 
set my whole soul in motion. If in my maturer 
years I could have seen nature and life around 
me with the same vivid feeling as then, and 
could have expressed it in words, it would have 
been an immortal poem. The great stillness 
of the streets, the iron-studded city gate, the 

* A little city in the mountains of Albano, which lies 
upon the highroad between Rome and the Marshes. — 
Note by the Author. 

i “ Osteria e cucina ,” the customary sign for the lower 
order of hotels and nublic-houses m haly. — Ibid. 

a 


1 Carnpagna stretching out for miles, with the 
lonely monuments, the thick mist which cover- 
I ed the feet of the distant mountains, — all these 
seemed to me mysterious preparations for the 
magnificence which I should behold. Even the 
wooden cross erected by the way-side, upon 
which hung the whitened bones of the murderer , 
which told us that here an innocent person had 
perished, and the perpetrator of his death had 
been punished, had for me an uncommon charm. 
First of all, I attempted to count the innumer- 
ably many stone arches which conduct the water 
from the mountains to Rome, but of this I was 
soon weary ; so I then began to torment the oth- 
ers with a thousand questions about the great 
fires which the peasants had made around the 
piled-up grave-stones, and would have an ex- 
act explanation of the vast flocks of sheep, 
which the wandering drivers kept together in 
one place by stretching a fishing-net, like a 
fence, around the whole herd. 

From Albano, we were to go on foot for 
the short and beautiful remainder of the way 
through Arriccia. Resida and golden cistus 
grew wild by the roadside, the thick, juicy 
olive-trees cast a delicious shade ; I caught a 
glimpse of the distant sea, and upon the mount- 
ain-slopes by the wayside, where a cross stood, 
merry girls skipped dancing past us, but yet 
never forgetting piously to kiss the holy cross. 
The lofty dome of the church of Arriccia I im- 
agined to be that of St. Peter, which the an- 
gels had hung up in the blue air among the 
dark olive-trees. In the street, the people had 
collected around a bear which danced upon his 
hind-legs, while the peasant who held the rope 
blew upon his bagpipe the selfsame air which 
he had played at Christmas, as Pifferaro, before 
the Madonna. A handsome ape in a military 
uniform, and which he called the corporal, 
made somersets upon the bear’s head and 
neck. I was quite willing to stop there instead 
of going on to Genzano. The flower-festival 
was really not till to-morrow, but my mother 
was resolute that we should go and help her 
friend, Angeline, to make garlands and flower- 
tapestry. 

We soon went the short remainder of the 
way and arrived at Angeline’s house ; it stood 
in that part of the neighbourhood of Genzano 
which looks on Lake Nemi ; it was a pretty 
house, and out of the wall flowed a fresh fount- 
ain into a stone basin, where the asses throng- 
ed to drink. 

We entered the hostel ; there was a noise 
and a stir. The dinner was boiling and friz- 
zling on the hearth. A crowd of peasants and 
town-folk sat at the long wooden tables drink- 
ing their wine and eating their presciutto. The 
most beautiful roses were stuck in a blue jug 
before the image of the Madonna, where the 
lamp would not burn well, because the smoke 
drew towards it. The cat ran over the cheese 
which lay upon the table, and we were near 
stumbling over the hens, which, terrified, hop- 
ped along the floor. Angeline was delighted 
to see us, and we were sent up the steep stairs 
near the chimney, where we had a little room 
to curselves, and a kingly banquet, according 
to my notions. Every thing was magnificent ; 
even the bottle of wine was ornamented ; in- 
stead of a cork, a full-blown rose was stuck in 


o 


is 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


it. Angeline kissed us all three ; I also re- 
ceived a kiss whether 1 would or not. An- 
geline said I was a pretty boy, and my mother 
patted me on the cheek with one hand, whilst 
u T ith the other she put my things to rights ; 
and now she pulled my jacket, which was too 
little for me, down to my hands, then again up 
to my shoulders and breast, just as it ought to 
have been. 

After dinner, a perfect feast awaited us ; we 
were to go out to gather flowers and leaves for 
garlands. We went through a low door out 
into the garden ; this Was only a few ells in 
circumference, and was, so to say, one single 
oower. The light railing which inclosed it 
was strengthened with the broad, firm leaves 
of the aloe, which grew wild here, and formed 
a natural fence. 

The lake slept calmly in the great, round 
crater, from which at one time fire spouted up 
to heaven. We went down the amphitheatre- 
like, rocky slope, through the great beech and 
the thick plantain wood, where the vines 
wreathed themselves among the tree-branches. 
On the opposite descent before us lay the city 
of Nemi, and mirrored itself in the blue lake. 
As we went along, we bound garlands ; the 
dark green olive and fresh vine-leaves we en- 
twined with the wild golden cistus. Now the 
deep-lying, blue lake, and the bright heavens 
above us, w r here hidden by the thick green and 
the vine-leaves ; now they gleamed forth again 
as if they both were only one single, infinite 
blue. Every thing was to me new and glori- 
ous ; my soul trembled for quiet joy. There- 
are even vet moments in which the remem- 
brance of these feelings come ^orth again like 
the beautiful mosaic fragment of a buried city. 

The sun burned hotly, and it was not until 
w r e w’ere by the lake-side, where the plantains 
shoot forth their ancient trunks from the water, 
and bend down their branches, heavy with en- 
wreathing vines, to the watery mirror, that we 
found it cool enough to continue our work. 
Beautiful w T ater-plants nodded here as if they 
dreamed under the deep shadow, and they, 
too, made a part of our garlands. Presently, 
however, the sunbeams no longer reached the 
laKe, but played only upon the roofs of Nemi 
and Genzano ; and now the gloom descended 
to where we sat. I went a little distance from 
the others, yet only a few paces, for my moth- 
er was afraid that I should fall into the lake 
where it was deep and the banks were sudden. 
Not far from the small stone ruins of an old 
temple of Diana there lay a huge fig-tree which 
the ivy had already begun to bind fast to the 
earth ; I had climbed upon this, and was weav- 
ing a garland whilst I sang from a canzonet, — 

“ Ah ! rossi, rossi fiori, 

Un mazzo di violi ! 

Un gelsomin d’amore,” 

when I was suddenly interrupted by a strangely 
whistling voice, — 

“ Per dar al mio bene !” 

and as suddenly there stood before me a tall, 
aged woman, of an unusually slender frame, and 
in the costume which the peasant women of 
Frascati are so fond of wearing. The long 
white veil which hung down from her head over 
her shoulders contributed to give the countenance 


and neck a more Mulatto tint than they probably 
had naturally. Wrinkle crossed wrinkle, where- 
by her face resembled a crumpled-up net. The 
black pupil of the eye seemed to fill up the whole 
eye. She laughed, and looked at the same time 
both seriously and fixedly at me, as if she were 
a mummy which some one had set up under the 
trees. 

“ Rosemary flowers,” she said, at length, “ be- 
come more beautiful in thy hands ; thou hast a 
lucky star in thy eyes.” 

I looked at her with astonishment, and press- 
ed the garland which I was weaving to my lips. 

“ There is poison in the beautiful laurel- 
leaves ;* bind thy garland, but do not taste of 
the leaves.” 

“ Ah, the wise Fulvia of Frascati !” exclaim- 
ed Angeline, stepping from among the bushes, 
“ art thou also making garlands for to-morrow’s 
festival 1 or,” continued she, in a more subdued 
voice, “ art thou binding another kind of nose- 
gay while the sun goes down on the Campagnal” 

“ An intelligent eye,” continued Fulvia, gazing 
at me without intermission ; “ the sun went 
through the bull he had nourished, and there 
hung gold and honour on the bull’s horns.” 

“Yes,” said my mother, who had come up 
with Mariuccia, “ when he gets on the black 
coat and the broad hat we shall then see wheth- 
er he must swing the censer or go through a 
thorn-hedge.” 

That she intended by this to indicate my be- 
ing of the clerical order, the sibyl seemed to 
comprehend ; but there was quite another mean- 
ing in her reply than we at that time might im- 
agine. 

' “ The broad hat,” said she, “ will not shadow 
his brow when he stands before the people, when 
his speeches sound like music, sweeter than the 
song of nuns behind the grating, and more pow- 
erful than thunder in the mountains of Albano. 
The scat of Fortune is higher than Monte Cave, 
where the clouds repose upon the mountains 
among the flocks of sheep.” 

“ Oh, God !” sighed my mother, shaking her 
head somewhat incredulously, although she lis- 
tened gladly to the brilliant prophecy, “ he is a 
poor child — Madonna only knows what will be- 
come of him ! The chariot of Fortune is lofti- 
er than the car of a peasant of Albano, and tne 
wheel is always turning ; how can a poor child 
mount it 1” • 

“ Hast thou seen how the two great wheels 
of the peasant’s car turn round 1 The lowest 
spoke becomes the highest, and then goes down 
again ; when it is down, the peasant sets his 
foot upon it, and the wheel which goes round 
lifts him up : but sometimes there lies a stone 
in the path, and then it will go like a dance in 
the market-place. ”t 

“And may not I, too, mount with him into 
the chariot of Fortune'!” asked my mother, half 
in jest, but uttered at the same moment a loud 
cry, for a large eagle flew so near us down into 
the lake that the water at the same moment 
splashed into our faces from the force with 
which he struck it with his great wings. High 
up in the air his keen glance had discovered a 

* Prunus laurocerasua, which grows aounuaiitxV among 
these mountains. — Author s Note 

T The peasants mount into tneir ta.. ears oy standing upon 
the spoke of the ascending wheel. — Ibid. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


19 


large fish, which lay immovable as a reed upon 
the surface of the lake ; with the swiftness of 
an arrow he seized upon his prey, stuck his 
sharp talons into the back of it, and was about 
to raise himself again, when the fish, which, by 
the agitation of the waters, we could see was 
of great size and almost of equal power to his 
enemy, sought on the contrary to drag him be- 
low with him. The talons of the bird were so 
firmly fixed into the back of the fish, that he 
could not release himself from his prey, and 
there now, therefore, began between the tw r o 
such a contest that the quiet lake trembled in 
wide circles. Now appeared the glittering back 
of the fish, now the bird struck the water with 
his broad wings, and seemed to yield. The 
combat lasted for some minutes. The tw r o 
wings lay for a moment still, outspread upon the 
water, as if they rested themselves ; then they 
were rapidly struck together, a crack was heard, 
the one wing sank down, whilst the other lashed 
the water to foam, and then vanished. The fish 
sunk beneath the waves with his enemy, where 
a moment afterwards they must both die. 

We had all gazed on this scene in silence ; 
when my mother turned herself round to the 
others, the sibyl had vanished. This, in con- 
nexion with the little occurrence, which, as will 
be seen, many years afterwards had an influence 
on my fate, and which was deeply stamped upon 
my memory, made us all somewhat silently hast- 
en home. Darkness seemed to come forth from 
the thickest leaves of the trees, the fire-red even- 
ing clouds reflected themselves in the mirror of 
the lake, the mill-wheel rushed round with a 
monotonous sound ; all seemed to have in it 
something demoniacal. As we went along, An- 
geline related to us in a whisper strange things 
which had been told to her of the old woman, 
who understood how to mix poisons and love- 
potions ; and then she told us about poor The- 
rese of Olevano — how she wasted away day by 
day from anxiety and longing after the slender 
Guiseppe, who had gone away beyond the mount- 
ains to the north, — how the old woman had boil- 
ed herbs in a copper vessel, and let them sim- 
mer over the hot coals for several days, until 
Guiseppe also was seized upon by a longing, and 
was obliged to speed back again, day and night, 
without rest or stay, to where the vessel was 
boiling holy herbs and a lock of his and The- 
rese’s hair. I said an Ave Maria softly, and did 
not feel easy until I was again in the house with 
Angeline. 

The four wicks in the brass lamp were light- 
ed, one of our garlands hung around it, and a 
supper of mongana al pomidoro* was set out for 
us, together with a bottle full of wine. The 
peasants in the room below us drank and impro- 
vised ; it was a sort of duet between two of 
them, and the whole company joined in the cho- 
rus, but when I went with the other children 
to sing before the image of the Virgin, which 
hung beside the great chimney where the fire 
burned, they all listened and praised my beauti- 
ful voice, which made me forget the dark wood 
and the old Fulvia who had told my fortune. I 
would gladly now have begun to improvise in 
emulation of the peasants, but my mother damp- 
ed mv vanity and my wish by the inquiry wheth- 
er I thought it becoming for me, who swung the | 


censer in the church, and, perhaps, some day 
should have to explain the word of God to the 
people, to set myself up there like a fool ; that 
it was not now carnival time, and that she would 
not allow it. But when in the evening we were 
in our sleeping-room, and I had climbed up into 
the broad bed, she pressed me tenderly to her 
heart, called me her comfort and her joy, and let 
me lay my head upon her arm, where I dreamed 
till the sun shone in at my window, and awoke 
me to the beautiful feast of flowers. 

How shall 1 describe the first glance into the 
street — that bright picture as I then saw it 'l 
The entire, long, gently ascending street was 
covered over with flowers ; the ground colour 
was blue : it looked as if they had robbed all 
the gardens, all the fields, to collect flowers 
enough of the same colour to cover the street ; 
over these lay in long stripes, green, composed 
of leaves, alternately with rose-colour ; at some 
distance from this was a similar stripe, and be- 
tween this a layer of dark red flowers, so as to 
form, as it were, a broad border to the whole 
carpet. The middle of' this represented stars 
and suns, which were formed by a close mass 
of yellow, round, and star-like flowers ; more 
labour still had been spent upon the formation 
of names — here flower w r as laid upon flower, 
leaf upon leaf. The whole was a living flower- 
carpet, a mosaic floor, richer in pomp of colour- 
ing than any thing which Pompeii can shew. 
Not a breath of air stirred — the flowers lay im- 
movable, as if they were heavy, firmly-set pre- 
cious stones. From all windows were hung 
upon the walls large carpets, worked in leaves 
and flowers, representing holy pictures. Here 
Joseph led the ass on which sat the Madonna 
and the child ; roses formed the faces, the feet, 
and the arms ; gifly-flowers and anemones their 
fluttering garments ; and crowns were made of 
white water-lilies, brought from Lake Nemi. 
Saint Michael fought with the dragon ; the holy 
Rosalia showered down roses upon the dark 
blue globe ; wherever my eye fell flowers rela- 
ted to me biblical legends, and the people all 
round about were as joyful as myself. Rich 
foreigners, from beyond the mountains, clad in 
festal garments, stood in the balconies, and by 
the side of the houses moved along a vast 
crowd of people, all in full holiday costume, each 
according to the fashion of his country. Beside 
the stone basin which surrounds the great fount- 
ain, where the street spreads itself out, my 
mother had taken her place, and I stood just 
before the satyr’s head which looks out from 
the water. 

The sun burnt hotly, all the bells rung, and 
the procession moved along the beautiful flow- 
er-carpet ; the most charming music and sing- 
ing announced its approach. Choristers swung 
the censer before the host, the most beautiful 
girls of the country followed, with garlands ot 
flowers in their hands, and poor children, with 
wings to their naked shoulders, sang hymns, 
as of angels whilst awaiting the arrival of the 
procession at the high altar. Young fellows 
wore fluttering ribands around their pointed 
hats, upon which a picture of the Madonna was 
fastened ; silver and gold rings hung to a chain 
around their necks, and handsome, bright-col- 
oured scarfs looked splendidly upon their black 
velvet iackets. The girls of Albano and Fras- 


* Veal and tomatoes 


20 


THE 1MPROVISATORE. 


cati came, with their thin veils elegantly thrown 
over their black, plaited hair, in which was 
stuck the silver arrow ; those from Villetri, on 
the contrary, wore garlands around their hair, 
and the smart neckerchief, fastened so low 
down in the dress as to leave visible the beau- 
tiful shoulder and the round bosom. From 
Abruzzi, from the Marshes, from every other 
neighbouring district, came all in their peculiar 
national costume, and produced altogether the 
most brilliant effect. Cardinals, in their man- 
tles woven with silver, advanced under cano- 
pies adorned with flowers, monks of various or- 
ders followed, all bearing burning tapers. When 
the procession came out of the church an im- 
mense crowd followed. We were carried along 
with it, — my mother held me firmly by the 
shoulder, that I might not be separated from 
her. Thus I went on, shut in by the crowd ; I 
could see nothing but the blue sky above my 
head. All at once there was sent forth a pier- 
cing cry — it rang forth on all sides ; a pair of 
unmanageable horses rushed through — more I 
did not perceive : I was thrown to the earth, it 
was all black before my eyes, and it seemed to 
me as if a waterfall dashed over me. 

Oh ! Mother of God, what a grief! a thrill of 
horror passes through me whenever I think of 
it. When I again returned to consciousness, I 
lay with my head in Mariuccia’s lap, she sobbed 
and cried : beside us lay my A mother stretched 
out, and there stood around a little circle of 
strange people. The wild horses had gone over 
us, the wheel had gone over my mother’s breast, 
blood gushed out of her mouth, — she was dead. 

I looked at the heavy, closed eyes, and folded 
the lifeless hands which lately had so lovingly 
protected me. The monks carried her into the 
convent, and as I was altogether without injury, 
excepting that the skin was a little broken, 
Mariuccia took me back again to the hostel 
where I had been yesterday so joyful, had bound 
garlands, and slept in my mother’s arms. I was 
most deeply distressed, although I did not appre- 
hend how entirely forlorn I was. They gave me 
playthings, fruit, and cakes, and promised me 
that on the morrow I should see my mother 
again, who, they said, was to-day with the Ma- 
donna, with whom there was a perpetual flower- 
feast and rejoicing. But other things which 
Mariuccia said also did not escape my attention. 
I heard her whisper about the hateful eagle yes- 
terday, about Fulvia, and about a dream which 
my mother had had ; now she was dead every 
one had foreseen misfortune. 

The runaway horses had, in the meantime, 
gone right' through the city, and, striking against 
a tree, had been stopped, and a gentleman of 
condition, upwards of forty years of age, half 
dead with terror, had then been helped from the 
carriage. He was, it was said, of the Borghesa 
family, and lived in a villa between Albano and 
Frascati, and was known for his singular pas- 
sion for collecting all kinds of plants and flow- 
ers ; nay, in the dark sciences it was believed 
that he was as knowing as even the wise Fulvia. 
A servant in rich livery brought a purse contain- 
ing twenty scudi from him for the motherless 
child. 

The next evening, before the ringing of the 
Ave Maria, I was conducted into the convent, 
!o see my mother for the last time ; she lay in 


| the narrow wooden coffin, in her holiday appar- 
i el, as yesterday at the flower-feast. 1 kissed 
her folded hands, and the women wept with me. 

There stood already at the door the corpse- 
bearers and the attendants, wrapped in their 
white cloaks, with the hoods drawn aver their 
faces. They lifted the bier on their shoulders, 
the Capuchins lighted their tapers, and began the 
song for the dead. Mariuccia went with me 
close behind the corpse, the red evening heaven 
shone upon my mother’s face, she looked as if 
she lived. The other children of the city ran 
gaily around me, and collected in little paper 
bags the drops of wax which fell from the 
monks’ tapers. 

We went through the streets where yesterday 
had passed the festival-procession, — it lay scat- 
tered over with leaves and flowers ; but the 
pictures, the beautiful figures, were all vanish- 
ed like the happiness of my childhood, the bliss 
of my past days. I saw when we reached the 
churchyard how the great stone was lifted 
aside which covered the vault into which the 
corpses were lowered. I saw the coffin de- 
scend, and heard the dull sound as it was set 
down Upon the others. Then all withdrew ex- 
cept Mariuccia, who let me kneel upon the 
gravestone, and repeat an “ Ora pro nobis /” 

In the moonlight night we journeyed back 
from Genzano ; Federigo and two strangers 
were with us. Black clouds hung upon the 
mountains of Albano. I saw the light mists 
which flew in the moonlight across the Campag- 
na. The others spoke but very little, and I soon 
slept, and dreamed of the Madonna, of the flow- 
ers, and my mother, who lived, smiled, and talk- 
ed to me. 


CHAPTER IV. 

UNCLE PEPPO. THE NIGHT IN THE COLOSSEUM. 

THE ADVICE. 

What should really now be done with me! 
that was the question which was asked when 
we came back to Rome, and into my mother’s 
house. Fra Martino advised that I should go 
to the Campagna to Mariuccia’s parents, who 
kept flocks, and were honest people, to whom 
the twenty scudi would be wealth, and who 
would not hesitate to take me home to them, 
and to treat me as their own child ; but, then, 
I was in part a member of the church, and, if I 
went out to the Campagna, I should no longei 
swing the censer in the church of the Capu- 
chins. Federigo also thought it better that I 
should remain in Rome with some decent peo- 
ple ; he should not like, he said, that I should 
be only a rough, simple peasant. 

Whilst Fra Martino counselled with himselt 
in the convent, my uncle Peppo came stump- 
ing upon his wooden clogs. He had heard of 
my mother’s death, and that twenty scudi had 
fallen to me, and for this reason he also now 
came to give his opinion. He declared, that as 
he was the only relative I had in the world, he 
should take me to himself ; that I was to fol- 
low him, and that every thing which the house 
contained was his, as well as the twenty scudi. 
Mariuccia maintained with great zeal that she 
and Fra Martino had already arranged every 
thing for the best, and gave him to understand 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


SI 


that he, a cripple and a beggar, had enough to 
do with himself, and could not have any voice 
in the matter. 

Federigo left the room, and the two who re- 
mained reproached each other mutually with 
the selfish ground of their regard for me. Un- 
cle Peppo spit forth all his venom, and Mariuc- 
cia stood like a Fury before him. She would, 
she said, have nothing to do with him, nor with 
the boy ; she would have nothing to do with 
any thing. She said he might take me and get 
me a pair of wooden crutches made, and so like 
a cripple I could help to fill his bag ! He might 
take me with him, but the money she would 
keep till Fra Martino came back ; not a single 
stiver of it should his false eyes behold ! Pep- 
po threatened to knock a hole in her head, as 
big as the Piazzo del Popolo, with his wooden 
hand-clogs. I stood weeping near to them. 
Mariuccia pushed me from her, and Peppo drew 
me to him. I must follow him, he said, must 
attach myself to him ; but if he bore the burden, 
he also would have the reward. *The Roman 
senate knew well enough how to do right to an 
honest man : and then he drew me against my 
will out of the house-door, where a ragged lad 
held his ass: for on great occasions, and when 
haste was required, he cast aside his board, and 
held himself fast on the ass with his withered 
legs ; he and it were, so to say, one body. Me 
he set before him upon the beast ; the lad gave 
it a blow, and so we trotted off, whilst he ca- 
ressed me in his own way. 

“Dost thou see, my child'!” he said, “is it 
not an excellent ass'! and fly can he, fly like a 
racer through the Corso ! Thou wilt be well 
off with me, like an angel of heaven, my fine 
fellow !” And then followed a thousand curses 
and maledictions against Mariuccia. 

“ Where hast thou stolen that pretty child 1” 
inquiied his acquaintance as we rode onward, 
and so my history was told and told again al- 
most at every corner. The woman who sold 
citron-peel water reached to us a whole glass 
for our long story, and gave me a pine-apple to 
take with me, the inside of which was all gone. 
Before we got under his roof the sun had gone 
down. I said not one word, but pressed my 
hands before my face, and cried. In the little 
room which adjoined the larger room, he show- 
ed me in a corner a bed of maize-leaves, or rath- 
er the dried husks of the maize ; here I was to 
sleep. Hungry I could not be, he said, nor 
thirsty either, for we had drunk the excellent 
glass of citron-water. He patted me on the 
cheek with that same hateful smile of which I 
always felt such horror. He then asked me 
how many silver pieces there were in the purse, 
whether Mariuccia had paid the vetturino out of 
it, and what the strange servant had said when 
he brought the money. I would give him no 
explanation, and asked with tears whether I 
was always to remain here, and whether I could 
not go home to-morrow. 

“ Yes, surely ! yes, surely !” said he ; “ sleep 
now, but do not forget thy Ave Maria ; when 
people sleep the devil wakes : make the sign of 
the cross over thee, it is an iron wall which a 
raging lion cannot break through ! Pray pious- 
ly ; and pray that the Madonna will punish with 
poison and corruption the false Mariuccia, who 
would overreach thv innocence, and cheat thee 


and me of all thy property. Now go to sleep, 
the little hole above can stand open, the fresh 
air is half a supper. Don’t be afraid of the bats 
— they fly past, the poor things ! Sleep well, 
my Jesus-child !” And with this he bolted the 
door. 

For a long time he busied himself in the other 
room ; then I heard other voices, and the light 
of a lamp came in through a chink in the wall. 
I raised myself up, but quite softly, for the dry 
maize-leaves rustled loudly, and I was afraid 
that he would hear them and come in again. I 
now saw through the chink that two wicks were 
lighted in the lamp, bread and radishes were 
set on the table, and a flask of wine went round 
the company. All were beggars, all cripples ; I 
knew them all well, although there was quite 
another expression on their countenances than I 
was accustomed to see there. The fever-sick, 
half-dead Lorenzo, sat there merry and noisy, 
and talked without intermission ; and by day I 
had always seen him lying stretched out on the 
grass on Monte Pincio,* where he supported his 
bound-up head against a tree-stem, and moved 
his lips as if half-dying, whilst his wife pointed 
out the fever-sick, suffering man, to the passers- 
by. Francia, with his fingerless hands, drum 
med with the stumps upon the shoulders of the 
blind Cathrina, and sang half aloud “ Cavaliei 
Torchino .” Two or three others sat near the 
door, but so much in the shadow, that I did not 
know them. My heart beat violently with fear. 
I heard that they talked about me. 

“Can the boy do any thing!” asked one. 
“ Has he any sort of a hurt 1” 

“ No, the Madonna has not been so kind to 
him,” said Peppo ; “ he is slender and well 
formed, like a nobleman’s child.” 

“ That is a great misfortune,” said they all. 
The blind Cathrina added that I could have some 
little hurt, which would help me to get my 
earthly bread until the Madonna gave me the 
heavenly. 

“ Ay,” said Peppo, “ if my niece had been 
wise the lad might have made his fortune ! He 
has a voice, oh, like the dear angels of heaven ! 
he was meant for the Pope’s chapel ! he ought 
to have been a singer !” 

They talked of my age, and of what could yet 
be done, and how my fortune must be made. I 
did not understand what they would do with me, 
but thus much, I saw clearly that it was some- 
thing bad they meant, and I trembled for fear. 
But how should I get away ! This alone filled 
my whole soul. Whither should I go ! No, of 
that I thought pot. I crept along the floor to 
the open hole, by the help of a block of wood I 
climbed up- to it. I saw not a single person in 
the street. The doors were all closed. I must 
take a great leap if I would reach the ground ; 
I had not courage for the leap until I seemed to 
hear some one at my door ; they were coming 
in to me. A shudder went through me ; I let 
myself slide from the wall. I fell heavily, but 
only upon earth and green turf. 

I started up and ran, without knowing whith- 
er, through the narrow, crooked streets. A man 
who sang aloud, and struck with his stick upon 


* This is the public promenade which extends from the 
Spanish Steps to the French Academy, and down to Porta 
del Popolo, looking - over the greatest part of Rome and the 
sea, with the Villa Borghese. — Author's Note. 


22 


TII£ IMPROVISATORE. 


the stone pavement, was the only person I met. 
At length I stood in a great square : the moon 
shone brightly, I knew the place, it was the 
Forum Romanum, the cow-market, as we call- 
ed it. 

The moon illumined the back of the Capitol, 
which, like a perpendicular wall of rock, seemed 
to divide the closely built part of Rome from 
that which was more open. Upon the high 
steps of the arch of Septimus Severus lay sev- 
eral beggars asleep, wrapped jn their large 
cloaks. The tall columns which yet remain of 
the old temple cast long shadows. I had never 
been there before after sunset ; there was some- 
thing spectral to me in the whole, and as I went 
along I stumbled over the marble capitals which 
lay in the long grass. I rose up and gazed upon 
the ruins of the city of the Caesars. The thick 
ivy made the walls still darker ; the black cy- 
presses raised themselves so demon-like and 
huge in the blue air, that I grew more and more 
fearful. In the grass, amid the fallen columns 
and the marble rubbish, lay some cows, and a 
mule still grazed there ; it was a sort of conso- 
lation to me, that here were living creatures 
which would do me no harm. 

The clear moonlight made it almost as bright 
as day ; every object shewed itself distinctly. 

I heard some one coming — was it some one in 
search of me 1 In my terror I flew into the gi- 
gantic Colosseum, which lay before me like a 
vast mass of rock. I stood in the double-vault- 
ed passage which surrounds one half of the 
building, and is large and perfect as if only 
completed yesterday. Here it was quite dark, 
and ice-cold. I advanced a few steps from be- 
tween the pillars, but softly, very softly, for the 
sound of my own footsteps made me more fear- 
ful. I saw a fire upon the ground, and could 
distinguish before it the forms of three human 
beings : were they peasants who had here sought 
out a resting-place for the night, that they might 
not ride over the desolate Campagna during the 
hours of darkness 1 or .were they, perhaps, sol- 
diers who kept watch in the Colosseum T or 
they might be robbers. I fancied that I heard 
the rattling of their weapons, and I therefore 
withdrew softly back again to where the tall 
pillars stand without any other roof than that 
which is formed by bushes and climbing plants. 
Strange shadows fell in the moonlight upon the 
lofty wall ; square masses of stone shot out 
from their regular places, and, overgrowm* with 
evergreen, looked as if they were about to fall, 
and were only sustained by the thick climbers. 

Above, in the middle gallery, people were 
walking, travellers, certainly, ^'ho were visiting 
these remarkable ruins late in the beautiful 
moonlight : a lady, dressed in white, was in the 
company. Now I saw distinctly this singular 
picture, as it came into view, vanished, and 
again shewed itself between the pillars, lighted 
by the moonbeams and the red torch. The air 
was of an infinitely dark blue, and tree and bush 
seemed as if made of the blackest velvet ; every 
leaf breathed night. My eye followed the stran- 
gers. After they were all gone out of sight, I 
still saw the red glare of the torch ; but this 
also vanished, and all around me was as still as 
death. 

Behind one of the many wooden altars which 
stand not far apart within the ruins, and indi- 


cate the resting-points of the Saviour’s progress 
to the cross, I seated myself upon a fallen capi- 
tal, which lay in the grass. The stone was as 
cold as ice, my head burned, there was fever in 
my blood ; I could not sleep, and there occurred 
to my mind all that people had related to me of 
this old building; of the captive Jews who had 
been made to raise these huge blocks of stone 
for the mighty Roman Caesar ; of the wild 
beasts which, withrn this space, had fought 
with each other, nay, even with men also, while 
the people sat upon stone benches, which as- 
cended, step-like, from the ground to the loftiest 
colonnade.* 

There was a rustling in the bushes above me; 

I looked up, and fancied that I saw something 
moving. Oh, yes, my imagination showed to 
me pale, dark shapes, which hewed and builded 
around me ; I heard distinctly every stroke 
which fell, saw the meagre, black-bearded Jews 
tear away grass and shrubs to pile stone upon 
stone, till the whole monstrous building stood 
there newly erected ; and now all was one 
throng of human beings, head above head, and 
the whole seemed one infinitely vast, living 
giant-body. 

I saw the Vestals in their long white gar- 
ments ; the magnificent court of the Caesar; 
the naked, bleeding gladiators ; then I heard 
how there was a roaring, and a howling round 
about in the lowest colonnades ; from various 
sides sprung in whole herds of tigers and hyae- 
nas ; they sped close past the spot where I lay ; 
I felt their burning breath ; saw their red, fiery 
glances, and held myself fast upon the stone 
upon which I was seated, whilst I prayed the 
Madonna to save me : but wilder still grew the 
tumult around me ; yet I could see in the midst 
of all the holy eross as it still stands, and which, 
whenever I had passed it, I had piously kissed. 
I exerted all my strength, and perceived dis- 
tinctly that I had thrown my arms around it ; 
but every thing that surrounded me tumbled vi- 
olently together — walls, men, beasts. Con- 
sciousness had left me, 1 perceived nothing 
more. 

When I again opened my eyes, my fever was 
over, but I was enfeebled, and as if oppressed 
with weariness. 

I lay actually upon the steps of the great 
wooden cross. I noticed now all that surround- 
ed me ; there was nothing at all terrific in it ; 
a deep solemnity lay upon the whole, a night- 
ingale sang among the bushes on the wall : I 
thought upon the dear child Jesus, whose moth- 
er, now that I had none, was mine also, threw 
my arms around the cross, rested my head 
against it, and soon sank into a calm, refresh- 
ing sleep. 

This must have lasted several hours. I was 
awoke by the singing of a psalm. The sun 
shone bpon the highest part of the wall ; the 
Capuchins went with burning tapers from altar 
to altar, and sang their “ Kyrie eleison,” in the 
beautiful morning. They stood now around 


* The Colosseum was built under Vespasian. Twelve 
thousand captive Jews laboured at its erection. The ruinj 
are now used for Christian worship. 

“ Whilst stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand ; 
When falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall ; 

And when Rome falls— the world.” — B yron. 

Author Note 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


23 


the cross where I lay ; — I saw Fra Martino 
bending over me. My forlorn appearance, my 
paleness, and my being here at this hour, made 
him uneasy. Whether I explained all to him I 
know not ; but my terror of Uncle Peppo, and 
my forlorn condition, were dear enough to 
him; I held fast by his brown cloak, prayed 
him not to leave me, and it seemed as if the 
brethren sympathised in my misfortune. They 
all, indeed, knew me ; I had been in the cells 
of all of them, and had sung with them before 
the holy altar. 

How glad then was I when Fra Martino led 
me back with him to the convent, and how en- 
tirely I forgot all my need as I sat in his little 
cell, where the old woodcuts were pasted upon 
the wall, and the orange-tree stretched its 
green, fragraht twigs in at the window. Fra 
Martino also had promised me that I should 
not again be sent back to Peppo. “ A beggar,” 
I heard him say to the others, — “ a begging 
cripple that lay in the streets craving our alms ; 
that the boy should never be!” 

At mid-day he brought me radishes, bread, 
and wine, and said to me, with such solemnity 
that my heart trembled within me, “ Poor lad ! 
if thy mother had lived, then had we not been 
separated ; the church would have possessed 
thee, and thou wouldest have grown up in its 
peace and protection. Now must thou go forth 
upon the restless sea, floating upon an insecure 
plank ; but think upon thy bleeding Saviour, and 
on the heavenly Virgin ! Hold fast by them ! 
Thou hast in the whole wide w r orld only them !” 

“ Where then shall I go 1” I asked. And now 
he told me that I was to go to the C-ampagna, 
to the parents of Mariuccia, and besought me 
to honour them as father and mother, to be obe- 
dient to them in all things, and never to forget 
my prayers and the learning which he had given 
me. 

In the evening Mariuccia came with her father 
to the convent-gate to fetch mo ; Fra Martino 
led me out to them. With regard to dress, Pep- 
po looked almost more respectable than this 
herdsman, to whom I was now consigned. The 
torn leather boots, the naked knees, the pointed 
hat in which was stuck a sprig of flowering 
heather, were the things which first caught my 
eye. He knelt down, kissed Fra- Martino’s 
hand, and said of mo that I was a pretty lad, and 
that he and his wife would divide every morsel 
with me. Mariuccia gave him the purse w 7 hich 
contained all my wealth, and afterwards all four 
went into the church ; they prayed silently, to 
themselves. I kneeled too, but I could not pray ; 
my eyes sought out all the beloved pictures : 
Jesus sailing in the ship, high above the church 
door ; the angels in the great altar-piece, and 
the holy St. Michael ; even to the death’s heads, 
with ivy garlands around them, must I say, 
farewell. Fra Martino laid his hand upon my 
head, and gave me at parting a little book, in 
which were woodcuts, “ Modo di servire la sancta 
messa ,” and so we parted. 

As we went across the Piazza Barberini, I 
could not help looking up to my mother’s house ; 
all the windows stood open, the rooms had new 
inmates. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE CAMPAGNA. 

The immense desert which lies around old 
Rome w r as now’ my home. The stranger from 
beyond the mountains, who, full of love for art 
and antiquity, approaches the city of the Tiber 
for the first time, sees a vast page of the world 
in this parched-up desert ; the isolated mounds 
all here are holy ciphers, entire chapters of 
the world’s history. Painters sketch the soli- 
tary standing arch of a ruined aqueduct, the 
shepherd who sits under it with his flock fig- 
ures on the paper ; they give the golden thistle 
in the foreground, and people say that it is a 
beautiful picture. With what an entirely dif- 
ferent feeling my conductor and I regarded the 
immense plain ! The burnt-up grass ; the un- 
healthy summer air, which always brings to 
the dwellers of the Campagna fevers and ma- 
lignant sickness, were doubtless the shadow 
side of his passing observations. To me there 
was a something novel in all ; I rejoiced to see 
the beautiful mountains, wfiiich in every shade 
of violet-colour inclosed one side of the plain ; 
the w T ild buffalo, and the yellow Tiber, on whose 
shore oxen with their long horns w r ent bending 
under the yoke, and drawing the boat against the 
stream. We proceeded in the same direction. 

Around us we saw only short, yellow grass, 
and tall, half-withered thistles. We passed a 
crucifix, which had been raised as a sign that 
some one had been murdered there, and near 
to it hung a portion of the murderer’s body, an 
arm and a foot ; this w’as frightful to me, and 
all the more so as it stood not far from my new 
home. This was neither more nor less than 
one of the old decayed tombs, of which so many 
remain here from the most ancient times. 
Most of the shepherds of the Campagna dwell 
in these, because they find in them all that 
they require for shelter, nay, even for comfort. 
They excavate one of the vaults, open a few 
holes, lay on a roof of reeds, and the dwelling 
is ready. Ours -stood upon a height, and con- 
sisted of twm stories. Tw t o Corinthian pillars 
at the narrow door-way bore witness to the 
antiquity of the building, as well as the three 
broad buttresses to its after-repairs. Perhaps 
it had been used in the middle ages as a fort ; 
a hole in the wall above the door served as a 
window ; one half of the roof w r as composed of 
a sort of reed and of twigs, the other half con- 
sisted of living bushes, from among wilich the 
honeysuckle hung down in rich masses over 
the broken wall. 

“ See, here we are !” said Benedetto ; and it 
was the first w r ord he had said to me on the 
whole way. 

“ Do we live here 1” I asked, and looked now 
at the gloomy dwelling, now back again to 
the mutilated remains of the robber. Without 
giving me any reply, he called to an old wom- 
an, “Domenica! — Domenica!” and I saw an 
aged woman, whose sole clothing consisted of 
a coarse shift, with bare arms and legs, and 
hair hanging loosely. She heaped upon me 
kisses and caresses ; and, if father Benedetto 
had been silent, she was only the more talka- 
tive ; she called me her little Ishmael, who was 
sent out into the desert, where the wfiH thistles 
grow. “ But thou shalt not be famished with 


*24 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


us !” said she. Old Domenica will be to thee 
a good mother in the place of her who now 
prays for thee in heaven ! And I have made 
thy bed ready for thee, and the beans are boiled, 
and my old Benedetto and thou shalt down to 
table together ! And Mariuccia is not then 
come with you 1 And thou hast seen the holy 
father 1 Yet hast not forgotten some prosciut- 
to, nor the brass-hook, nor the new picture of 
the Madonna, for us to paste on the door be- 
side the old one, which is black with our kiss- 
ing. No, thou art a man who canst remem- 
ber, who canst think, my own Benedetto !” 

Thus she proceeded with a torrent of words, 
and led us into the small room, which was 
called the chamber, but which afterwards ap- 
peared to me as large as the hall of the Vati- 
can. I believe indeed that this home operated 
very much upon my poetical turn of mind. 
This little narrow room was, to my imagina- 
tion, what a weight is to the young palm-tree 
— the more it is compressed into itself, the 
more it grows. The house was, as has been 
said already, in the very ancient times, a fami- 
ly burial-place, which consisted of a large room, 
with many small niches, side by side, in two 
rows, one above the other, all covered over 
with the most artistical mosaic. Now was 
each put to very different purposes ; the one 
was a store-room, another held pots and pans, 
and a third was the fireplace, where the beans 
were cooked. 

Domenica prepared the table and Benedetto 
blessed the food ; when we had had enough, 
the old mother took me up a ladder, through 
th?3 broken vault in the wall, to the second 
story, were we all slept in two great niches 
which had once been graves. In the farthest 
was the bed which was prepared for me ; be- 
side of it stood two posts supporting a third, 
from which swung a sort of cradle, made of 
sail-cloth, for a little child ; I fancy Mariuc- 
cia’s : it was quite still. I laid myself down ; 
a stone had fallen out of the wall, and through 
the opening I could see the blue air without, 
and the dark ivy which, like a bird, moved it- 
self in the wind. As I laid myself down, there 
ran a thick, bright-coloured lizard over the 
wall, but Domenica consoled me by saying that 
the poor little creature was more afraid of me 
than I of it ; it would do me no harm ! and, 
after repeating over me an Ave Maria, she took 
the cradle over into the other niche where she 
and Benedetto slept. I made the sign of the 
holy cross, thought on my mother, on the Ma- 
donna, on my new parents, and on the execu- 
ted robber’s bloody hand and foot which I had 
seen near the house, and these all mingled 
strangely in my dreams this first night. 

The next day began with rain, which contin- 
ued for a whole week, and imprisoned us in 
the narrow room, in which was a half twilight, 
although the door stood open when the wind 
blew the rain the other way. I had to rock the 
baby which lay in the cradle. Domenica spun 
with her spindle ; told me tales of the robbers 
of the Campagna, who, however, did no harm ; 
sang pious songs to me, taught me new prayers, 
and related to me new legends of saints which 
I had not heard before. Onions and bread 
were our customary food, and I thought them 
good ; but I grew weary of myself shut up in 


that narrow room ; and then Domenica just 
outside the door dug a little canal, a little wind 
ing Tiber, where the yellow water flowed slow- 
ly away. Little sticks and reeds were my 
boats, which I made to sail past Rome to Ostia ; 
but, when the rain beat in too violently, the 
door was obliged to be shut, and we sat almost 
in the dark. Domenica spun, and I thought 
about the beautiful pictures in the convent 
church ; seemed to see Jesus tossing past me in 
the boat ; the Madonna on the cloud borne up- 
wards by angels, and the tombstones with the 
garlanded heads. 

When the rainy season was over, the heav- 
ens shewed for whole months their unchange- 
able blue. I then obtained leave to go out, but 
not too tar, nor too near to the river, because 
the soft ground might so easily fall in with me, 
said Domenica ; many buffaloes also grazed 
there, which were wild and dangerous, but, 
nevertheless, those had for me a peculiar and 
strange interest. The something demon-like 
in the look of the buffalo — the strange, red fire 
which gleamed in its eyeballs, awoke in me a 
feeling like that which drives the bird into the 
fangs of the snake. Their wild running, swift 
er than the speed of a horse, their mutual com- 
bats, where force meets with force, attracted 
my whole attention. I scrawled figures in the 
sand to represent what I had seen, and, to 
make this the more intelligible, I sang it all in 
its own peculiar words to its own peculiar 
melody, to the great delight of old Domenica, 
who said that I was a wise child, and sang as 
sweetly as the angels in heavon. 

The sun burnt hotter day by day ; its beams 
were like a sea of fire which streamed over the 
Campagna. The stagnant water infected the 
air ; we could only go out in the morning and 
evening ; such heat as this I had not known in 
Rome upon the airy Monte Pincio, although I 
well remembered then the hot time when the 
beggars had prayed for a small coin, not for 
bread, but for a glass of iced water. I thought 
in particular about the delicious, green water- 
melons which lay one on another, divided in 
halves, and shewed the purple-red flesh with 
the black seeds ; my lips were doubly parched 
with thinking of these ! The sun burned per- 
pendicularly ; my shadow seemed as if it would 
vanish under my feet. The buffaloes lay like 
dead masses upon the burnt-up grass, or, ex- 
cited to madness, flew, with the speed of ar- 
rows, round in great circles. Thus my soul 
conceived an idea of the travellers’ suffering in 
the burning deserts of Africa. 

During two months we lay there like a 
wreck in the world’s sea. Not a single living 
creature visited us. All business was done in 
the night or else in the early hours of morning ; 
the unhealthy atmosphere and the scorching 
heat excited fever-fire in my blood ; not a sin- 
gle drop of any thing cold could be had for re- 
freshment ; every marsh was dried up ; warm, 
yellow water, flowed sleepily in the bed of the 
Tiber ; the juice of the melon was warm 
even wine, although it lay hidden among stones 
and rubbish, tasted sour and half boiled, and 
not a cloud, not a single cloud, was to be seen 
on the horizon — day and night always the ever- 
lasting, never-changing blue. Every evening 
and morning we prayed for rain, or else a fresh 


25 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


breeze ; every evening and morning, Domeni- 
ca looked to the mountains to see if no cloud 
raised itself, but night alone brought shade — 
the sultry shade of night ; the sirocco alone 
blew through the hot atmosphere for two long, 
long months. 

At the sun’s rise and setting alone was there 
a breath of fresh air ; but a dulness, a death- 
like lethargy produced by the heat, and the 
frightful weariness which it occasioned, op- 
pressed my whole being.. This and all kind of 
tormenting insects, which seemed destroyed 
by the heat', awoke at the first breath of air to 
redoubled life ; they fell upon us in myriads 
with their poison-stings ; the buffaloes often 
looked as if they were covered over with this 
buzzing swarm, which beset them as if they 
were carrion, until, tormented to madness, they 
betook themselves to the Tiber, and rolled 
themselves in the yellow water. . The Roman 
who in the hot summer days groans in the al- 
most expiring streets, and crawls along by the 
house-sides, as if he would drink up the shadow 
which is cast down from the walls, has still no 
idea of the sufferings in the Campagna, where 
every breath which he draws is sulphurous, 
poisonous fire ; where insects and crawling 
things, like demons, torment him who is con- 
demned to live in this sea of flame. 

September brought with it milder days, it 
sent out also Federigo one evening to make 
sketches of the burned-up landscape. He dre^jv 
our singular house, the gallows, and the wild 
buffaloes. He gave me paper and pencils, that 
I also might draw pictures, and promised that 
when he came next time he would take me 
with him for a day to Rome, that I should visit 
Fra Martino and Mariuccia, and all my friends, 
who seemed really to have quite forgotten me 
— but Federigo forgot me also. 

It w&5 now r November, and the most beauti- 
ful tim£ which I had yet spent here. .Cool airs 
were wafted from the mountains, and every 
evening I saw in the clouds that rich colouring 
which is only found in the south-, and which 
the painter cannot and dare not give to his pic- 
tures. The singular, olive-green clouds, on a 
grey ground, were to me floating islands from 
the garden of paradise ; the dark-blue, on the 
contrary, those which lrung like crowns of fir- 
trees in the glowing fire of the evening heaven, 
seemed to me mountains of felicity, in whose 
valleys the beautiful angels played and fanned 
cool breezes with their white wings. 

One evening as I sat sunk in my reveries, I 
found that I could gaze on the sun by looking 
through a finely pricked leaf. Domenica said 
that it would injure my eyes, and, to put an end 
to the sport, she fastened the door. The time 
went on wearily ; I prayed her to let me go 
out, and, as she consented, I sprang up gladly, 
and opened the door, but at the same moment 
a man darted in so suddenly, that I was 
thrown to the ground ; with equal speed he 
closed the door again : scarcely had I perceiv- 
ed his pale, agitated countenance, and heard 
him in a tone of distress utter the name of the 
Madonna, when a violent blow so shattered the 
door, that it gave way and fell inward, and the 
whole opening was filled with the head of a 
buffalo, which glared upon us with his mali- 
*ious, fiery eyes. 

D 


Domenica gave a ccream, seized me bv the 
arm, and sprang up several steps of the ladder 
which led to the upper room. The stranger, 
pale as death, cast his eyes timidly around him, 
and perceiving Benedetto’s gun, which, in case 
of nocturnal inroads, always hung on the wall 
ready-charged, he seized it in a moment. I 
heard the report, and saw in the cloud of 
smoke how he had shot the beast through the 
forehead. It stood immovably there, squeezed 
into the narrow doorway, and could neither 
come forward nor be moved backward. 

“But, all ye saints!” exclaimed Domenica, 
“ what have you done 1 You have really taken 
the life of the beast !” 

“Blessed be Madonna!” replied the stran- 
ger ; “ she has saved my life, and thou wast 
my good angel !” said he, lifting me from the 
ground. “ Thou openedst the door of salva- 
tion for me !” He was yet quite pale and the 
cold sweat-drops stood upon his forehead. 

We heard immediately by his speech that he 
was no foreigner, and saw that he must be a 
noble from Rome. He related, moreover, that 
it was his pleasure to collect flowers and 
plants ; that for this purpose he had left his 
carriage at Ponte Molle,* and was going along 
the banks of the Tiber. Not far from us he 
had fallen upon the buffaloes, one of which had 
immediately followed him, and he alone was 
saved by the nearness of our house, and by the 
door suddenly opening, as if by miracle. 

“ Holy Maria, pray for us !” exclaimed Do- 
menica ; “ yes, she has saved you, the holy 
mother of God ! and my little Antonio was one 
of her elect ! yes, she loves him ! Excellenza 
does not know what a child that is ! read can 
he, every thing, whether it is printed or writ- 
ten ! and draw so naturally, that one can see 
directly whatever it is meant for. The dome 
of St. Peter’s, the buffaloes, ay, even fat Fa- 
ther /Ymbrosius, has he drawn ; and then for his 
voice ! Excellenza should hear him sing ; the 
Pope’s singers could not excel him ; and be- 
sides that, he is a good child, a strange child. 
I would not praise him when he is present, be- 
cause children cannot bear praise ; but he de- 
serves it !” 

“ He is, then, not your own sonl” inquired 
the stranger ; “ he is too young for that.” 

“And I am too old,” replied she. “No, an 
old fig-tree has no such little heart-shoots ; the 
poor child has no other father and mother in 
the world than me and my Benedetto. But we 
will not part with him, even when we have not 
a stiver left of the money! But then, Holy 
Virgin !” said she, interrupting herself, and 
taking hold of the horns of the buffalo, from 
the head of which the blood streamed into the 
room, “ we must have this beast away ! one 
can neither come in nor go out. Ah, yes ! it 
is jammed in quite fast. We can’t get out be- 
fore Benedetto comes. If it only do not bring 
us into trouble that the beast is killed !” 

“ You may be quite easy, good woman,” said 
the stranger; “I will answer for all. You 
have heard, perhaps, of the Borghesel” 

“ O Principe !” exclaimed Domenica, and 
kissed his clothes ; but he pressed her hand, 
and took mine between his, as he desired hei 
to take me in the morning to Rome, to tho 


* Pons Milvius. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


l 2t 

Borghese Palace, where he lived, and to which 
family he belonged. Tears filled the eyes of 
my old foster-mother on account of his great 
favour, as she called it. My abominable 
scratches upon bits of paper, which she had 
preserved with as much care as if they had 
been the sketches of a Michael Angelo, must 
now be brought out. Excellenza must see 
every thing which had pleased her, and I was 
proud because he smiled, patted my cheeks, 
and said that I was a little Salvator Rosa. 

“Yes,” said Domenica, “ is it not extraordi- 
nary for a child'! and is it not so natural that 
one can plainly see what all is meant fori 
The buffaloes, the boats, and our little house. 
See ! and that is meant for me ! it is just like 
me ; only it wants colouring, for that he can’t 
do with pencil. Now, sing for Excellenza !” 
said she to me ; “sing as well as thou canst, 
with thy own words ! Yes, he can put togeth- 
er whole histories and sermons as well as any 
monk ! Nay, let us hear ! Excellenza is a 
gracious gentleman, he wishes it, and thou 
knowest how to keep tune.” 

The stranger smiled, and amused himself 
with us both. That Domenica should think 
my improvisation quite a masterpiece was a 
thing of course : but what I sang, and how, I 
remember not, and yet that the Madonna, Ex- 
cellenza, and the buffalo, were the poetical 
triad of the whole, I recollect distinctly. Ex- 
cellenza sat silent, and Domenica read in this 
silence astonishment at my genius. 

“ Bring the boy with you,” were the first 
words which he spoke. “ I will expect you 
early to-morrow morning. Yet, no — come in 
the evening, an hour before the Ave Maria. 
When you come, my people shall be instructed 
immediately to admit you. But how am I to 
get out 1 Have you any other mode of exit 
than this where the beast lies 1 and how shall 
I, without any danger from the buffaloes, get 
to my carriage at Pont Molle I” 

“ Yes, getting out,” said Domenica ; “ there 
is no possibility of that for Excellenza. I can, 
to be sure, and so can the rest of us ; but it is 
no way for such a great gentleman ! Above 
here there is a hole where one can creep out, 
and then slide down quite well ; that even I 
can do in my old age ! but it is, as I said, not 
quite the thing for strangers and grand gentle- 
folks !” 

Excellenza mounted in the meantime up the 
narrow steps, stuck his head through the hole 
in the wall, and declared it was as good a way 
as the steps of the Capitol. The buffaloes had 
betaken themselves long ago to the Tiber, and 
on the road, not far from us, went a crowd of 
peasants sleepily and slowly along the great 
highway. These he would join ; behind their 
wagon, laden with reeds, he was safe from the 
buffaloes, if these ventured on a new attack. 
Yet once more he impressed it upon old Do- 
menica to come the next day, an hour before 
the Ave Maria, extended his hand to her to 
Kiss, stroked my cheek, and let himself slide 
down the thick ivy. We soon saw him over- 
take the wagon, behind which he vanished. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE VISIT IX THE BORGHESE PALACE. END OF 

THE HISTORY OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

Benedetto and a couple of herdsmen after- 
wards removed the animal from the doorway ; 
there was a great talking and gossiping, but 
that which I distinctly remember was, that 
next morning, before break of day, I was awake 
and up, because towards evening I was going 
to the city with Domenica. My Sunday clothes, 
which had lain for many months under lock 
and key, were now brought out, and a lovely 
rose was fastened into my little hat. My shoes 
were the worst part of my habiliments, and it 
would have been a difficult thing to decide 
whether they were that which they were call- 
ed, or were not rather a pair of antique Roman 
sandals. 

How long was it across the Campagna now, 
and how the sun burned ! Never, in later 
times, has the wane of I'alernia and Cyprus 
tasted more delicious to me than the water 
which now poured from the mouth of the stone 
lion in the Piazzo del Popolo.* I pressed my 
warm cheek to the jaws of the lion, and let the 
water spout over my head, to the great horror 
of Domenica, since by so doing my dress was 
wet and my hair disorderly. In the meantime 
we strolled down the Via Ripetta towards the 
Borghese Palace. How often before now had 
I, and Domenica no less, gone past this build- 
ing without regarding it otherwise than any 
other indifferent object ; but now we stood and 
contemplated it in regular silence ; all seemed 
so great to us, so magnificent, so rich, and es- 
pecially the long silken curtains in the win- 
dows. We knew Excellenza within there ; he 
was actually at our house yesterday ; that gave 
a peculiar interest to the whole. I shall never 
forget the strange tremour which the pomp of 
the building and of the rooms produced in me ; 
I had talked quite familiarly with Excellenza ; 
he was, in reality, a human being like all the 
rest of us ; but all this possession, this mag- 
nificence ! yes, now I was aware of the glory 
which separated the holy from mankind. In 
the centre of the palace four lofty whitewashed 
colonnades, filled with statues and busts, in- 
closed a little garden ;t tall aloes and cactuses 
grew up the pillars ; citron-trees stood there 
with grass-green fruit which was not yet yel- 
lowed by the sun. Two dancing Bacchantes 
held a water-bowl aloft, but so obliquely that 
the water streamed upon their shoulders ; tall 
water-plants drooped over them their juicy, 
green leaves. How cool, green, and fragrant 
was everything here in comparison with the 
sterile, burned-up, burning Campagna ! 

We ascended the broad marble steps. Beau- 
tiful statues stood in niches, before one of 


* In coming- to Rome from the north, the way passes 
through the gate del Popolo, and the traveller then find* 
himself in the large, beautiful Piazzo del Popolo, which 
lies between the Tiber and Monte Pincio. On either hand 
he sees, under the shade of cypresses and acacias, modem 
statues and fountains, and in the middle of the square, be- 
tween the well-known four stone lions, stands an obelisk 
of the time of Sesostris. Beyond lie the three straight 
streets, Via Babuino, 11 Corso, and Via Ripetta, two uni- 
form churches terminating the principal one, II Corso. No 
city can have a more pleasant, more gay, cheerful appear- 
ance than old Rome from this point. — Author's Note. 

* This little garden has been since then altered into a 
flagged court. — lbid t 


THE IMPROVISATURE. 


which Domenica knelt, and piously made the 
sign of the cross. She thought that it was the 
Madonna; afterwards I learned that it was 
Vesta, the holy virgin also of a more ancient 
time. Servants in rich livery received us ; 
they met us so kindly that my fear would 
somewhat have abated had not the hall been 
so large and so magnificent ! The floor w r as 
of marble, as smooth as glass, and on all the 
walls hung beautiful pictures ; and where these 
were not the walls were covered with looking- 
glass, and painted with angels that bore gar- 
lands and sprays of flowers, and with beautiful 
birds that extended their broad wings and 
pecked at red and golden fruit. Never had I 
seen any thing so splendid ! 

We had to wait a few moments, and then 
Excellenza entered, accompanied by a beautiful 
lady dressed in white, with large, lively eyes, 
which she riveted upon us. She looked at 
me with a singularly penetrating but kind 
glance, stroked my hair from my forehead, and 
said to him, “Yes, as I said, an angel has saved 
you ! I’ll wager that there are wings under 
that ugly, narrow jacket.” 

“ No,” replied he, “ I read in his red cheeks 
that the Tiber will send many waves to the sea 
before his wings shoot out ; the old mother 
will rather not that he should fly away. That’s 
true, is it notl You would not like to part 
with him 1” 

“No; that would be the same as blocking 
up the door and window of my little house ! 
then it would be dark and lonesome ; no, »I 
can’t part with the sweet child !” 

“ But for this one evening,” said the lady, 
“he can stop some hours with us, and then 
you can fetch him ; you have beautiful moon- 
light to go back in, and you are not afraid of 
robbers 1” 

“Yes, the boy stops here for*an hour, and 
you, in the meantime, can go and buy one thing 
and another that you have need of at home,” 
said Excellanza, and thrust a little purse into 
Domenica’s hand. I heard no more, for the 
lady took me with her into the hall, and left 
him and the old. mother together. 

The rich splendour, the high-born company, 
quite dazzled me ; now I looked at the smiling 
angel-children that peeped forth from among 
the green vine-leaves on the walls ; now on the 
violet-stockinged senators and the red-legged 
cardinals, who had always appeared to me as a 
sort of demi-gods, but in whose circle I seemed 
now to be received. But, above all, my eye 
was attracted to the beautiful Cupid which, 
like a lovely child, rode upon the ugly dolphin, 
which threw up two great streams of water, 
that fell back again into the basin in which it 
swam in the middle of the hall. 

The high-bred company, nay, even the cardi- 
nals and senators smiled to me a welcome, 
and a young, handsome man, dressed as an 
officer of the papal guard, extended to me his 
hand, when the young lady introduced me as 
her uncle’s good angel. They asked ipe a 
thousand questions, to which I readily replied, 
and soon resounded laughter and the clapping 
of hands. Excellenza came up, and said that 
I must sing them a song, which I did willingly. 
The young officer gave me a glass of foaming 
wine, but the young lady shook her head and 


took the glass from me before T had emptied 
it. Like fire and flame the wine went through 
my blood. The officer said that I must sing 
about the handsome lady who stood §miling 
beside me, and I joyfully did as he desired 
Heaven knows what I mixed up together, but 
my stream of words passed for eloquence, my 
boldness for wit ; and because I was a poor 
lad from the Campagna, the whole bore the 
stamp of genius. All applauded me, and the 
officer himself took a wreath of laurel from a 
bust which stood in a corner, and placed it, 
half smiling, on my head. The whole was a 
jest, yet I regarded it as sober earnestness — as 
a homage which made me happy, and made 
this the brightest moment of my life. I sang 
to them the songs which Mariuccia and Domen- 
ica had taught me ; described to them the 
wicked eyes of the buffaloes and our room in 
the ruined tomb. Only too quickly passed the 
time ; I must now go home again with my old 
foster-mother. Laden with cakes, fruit, and 
several silver coins, I followed her : she was 
as happy as I was ; had made many purchases ; 
articles of clothing, cooking-vessels, and two 
great bottles of wine. The evening was infi- 
nitely beautiful. The night slumbered upon 
trees and shrubs, but high above us hung the 
full moon, which, like a lovely golden boat in 
the far outspread dark blue sea of air, sent 
down coolness over the burnt-up Campagna. 

I thought upon the rich saloon, the kind lady, 
and the many applauding claps ; dreamed both 
waking and sleeping, the same delicious dream, 
which was speedily to be reality — beautiful 
reality. 

More than once was I fetched to Rome. 
The lovely, friendly lady, amused herself with 
my peculiar turn of mind ; she made me tell 
her tales, talk to her just as I did to old Domen- 
ica;. she had great delight in it, and praised 
me to Excellenza. He, too, was kind to me, 
doubly kind, inasmuch as he was the innocent 
cause of my mother’s death ; for he it was 
who sat in the carriage when the runaway 
horses passed over her head. The beautiful 
lady was called Francesca ; she often took me 
with her into the rich picture-gallery which the 
Borghese Palace contained ; my naive ques- 
tions and observations on the glorious pictures 
made her smile ; she told them again to others, 
and all laughed with her. In the mornings the 
hall was filled with strangers, who came from 
beyond the mountains. Artists also at that 
time copied various paintings, but in the after- 
noons the pictures were left to their own soli- 
tude ; then Francesca and I w T ent in, and she 
related to me many histories, to which the pic- 
tures gave occasion. 

“ The Seasons,” by Francesca Albani, were 
beyond all others my favourite pieces ; the 
beautiful, joyous, angel-children, Loves, as she 
taught me to call them, were as if creations of 
my own dreams. How deliciously they w*ere 
staggering about in the picture of Spring ! A 
crowd of them were sharpening arrows, whilst 
one of them turned round the great grindstone, 
and two others, floating above, poured water 
upon it. In summer they flew among the 
green trees which were loaded with fruit* 
which they plucked. They swam in the fresh 
water, and played with it. Autumn hi ought 


28 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


the pleasures of the chase Cupid sits with a 
torch in his hand, in his little chariot, which 
two of his comrades draw ; whilst Love beck- 
ons to the brisk hunter, and shows him the 
place where they can rest themselves side by 
side. Winter has lulled all the little ones to 
sleep ; soundly and fast they lie slumbering 
around. The Nymphs steal their quivers and 
arrows, which they throw on the fire, that there 
may be an end of the dangerous weapons. 

Why angels were called Loves'? why they 
went about shooting ? — yes, there were many 
things of which I wanted to have a plainer ex- 
planation than Francesca at this moment gave 
me. 

“ Thou must read thyself about them,” said 
she ; “ there is a great deal with which thou 
must become acquainted, but the beginning is 
not attractive ! The whole day long thou must 
sit on a bench with thy book, not play with the 
goats in the Campagna, or go here and there 
looking after thy little friends ! Which now 
shouldst thou like best, either to ride with a 
helmet and sword beside the coach of the holy 
father, and wear a fine suit of armour from 
head to foot, like that in which thou hast seen 
Fabiani, or to understand all the beautiful pic- 
tures which thou seest here, know the whole 
world around thee, and a thousand histories 
far more beautiful than those which I have told 
thee V* 

“ But can I then never again come to thee 1” 
asked I ; “ can I not live with good Domenica V* 

“ Dost thou still remember thy mother, thy 
dear home with her 1 ? Then thou desiredst 
ever to remain there ; thought not of Domeni- 
ca, not of me ; and now we are both of us so 
much, to tbee. In a short time this may be 
agaipj he c«se ; and so it goes through one’s 
whole? fife.” 

“ But you two are not dead, like my mother !” 
I replied, with tears in my eyes. 

“ Die or part must we all ! There will come 
a time when we shall not be altogether as we 
are now, and I then w'ould know thee joyful 
and happy.” 

A torrent of tears was my answer ; I felt 
very unhappy, without properly knowing how 
to explain the cause of my being so. Frances- 
ca patted me on the cheek, and said that I was 
quite too sensitive, and that this was not at all 
good in the world. Now came Excellenza, and 
the young officer with him, who had placed the 
garland on my head the first time I had impro- 
vised before him. He was called Fabiani, and 
was also very fond of me. 

“ There is a marriage, a splendid marriage 
at the Villa Borghese,” was shouted some even- 
ings afterwards, till it reached Domenica’s poor 
house on the Campagna. Francesca was the 
bride of Fabiani, and must now, in a few days, 
accompany him to his seat near Florence. The 
marriage was celebrated at the Villa Borghese, 
just in the neighbourhood of Rome, in the beau- 
tiful thick grove of laurels and evergreen oaks, 
where the lofty pines, winter and summer, lift 
up their perpetually bright green crowns into 
the blue air. Then, as now, was that grove a 
place of recreation for the Romans, as well as 
for strangers. Rich equipages rolled along the 
thick oak-alleys ; white swans swam on the 
atill lakes, within which the weeping willow 


was mirrored, and where artificial cascades 
fell over blocks of stone. High-breasted Ro- 
man women, with flashing eyes, rolled forth to 
the festival, and looked proudly down upon the 
life-enjoying peasant-girl, who danced upon the 
highway to the music of her tambourine. Old 
Domenica went with me all the long way across 
the Campagna, that we also might be together 
at the bridal of our benefactress. Outside the 
garden, where the tall aloes grew up like es- 
paliers along the white wall, we stood and saw 
the lights shine in the windows. Francesca 
and Fabiani were married. From the saloon 
came forth to us the sound of music ; and from 
the green plain, on which the amphitheatre was 
erected, rockets mounted, and beautiful fire- 
works played in the blue air. The shadows of 
a lady and gentleman were seen on the cur- 
tains of one of the lofty windows. “It.is he 
and she !” said Domenica. The shadows bent 
towards each other in the half-darkened win- 
dow as if to unite in a kiss. I saw my old fos- 
ter-mother fold her hands and pray ; I also sank 
down involuntarily before the black cypresses, 
and prayed for my beloved, good signora ; Do- 
menica kneeled with me. “ May they be happy !” 
and now rained the fire, like a thousand falling 
stars, as if in token of assent from heaven. 
But my good old mother wept, wept for me 
who w'as soon to be separated from her. Ex- 
cellenza had purchased me a place in the Jes- 
uits’ school, where I w~as to be brought up with 
other children, and to a more splendid life than 
old Domenica and the Campagna could afford 
me. 

“It is now for the last time,” said the old 
mother, “ that we two, whilst my eyes are yet 
open, shall go together over the Campagna ! 
Thy feet will tread on polished floors, and on 
gay carpets ; these old Domenica has not : but 
thou hast been a good child ; thou wilt remain 
so, and never forget me and poor Benedetto ! 
Oh, God ! yet can a. dish of roasted chestnuts 
make thee happy ? Thou shalt sit and blow up 
the reeds, and I will see God’s angel in thy 
eyes, when the reeds burn, and the poor chest- 
nuts roast ; so glad wilt thou- never more be 
with so small a gift ! The thistles of the Cam- 
pagna bear yet red flow r ers ; upon the polished 
floors of the rich there grow r no straws, and the 
ground is smooth, one falls so easily there ! 
Never forget that thou wast a poor child, my 
little Antonio. Remember that thou must see 
and not see, hear and not hear ; then thou wilt 
get through the world. Some day, when our 
Lord has called away me and Benedetto, w hen 
the little child which thou hast rocked goes 
creeping through life with a poor partner in the 
Campagna, thou wilt, perhaps, then go past in 
thy own chariot, or on a fine horse ; halt thou 
before the old tomb-chamber where thou hast 
slept, played, and lived with us, and thou wilt 
see strangers living there, who will bow them- 
selves deeply before thee. Haughty thou wilt 
not be, but think upon old times, think upon 
old domenica ! Look in at the place where 
the chestnuts were cooked, and where thou 
rockedst the little child. Thou wilt think upon 
thy own poor childhood, thou heart’s darling 
child !” With this she kissed me, and clasped 
me closely to her breast and wmpt : it seemed 
to me as if my heart would break. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


Our return home and her words were to me 
far more distressing than our parting even 
somewhat later ; then she said nothing, but 
only wept ; and when we were outside the door 
she ran back, and took down the old, lialf-black- 
ened picture of the Madonna, which w^as pasted 
behind the door, and gave it to me ; I had kiss- 
ed it so often — it was the only thing which she 
had to give me. 

— 

CHAPTER YIl. 

SCHOOL-LIFE HABEAS DAHDAH DIVINA COME- 
DIA THE SENATOR’S NEPHEW. 

Signora had journeyed away with her hus- 
band ; I was become a scholar in the school of 
the Jesuits ; new occupatious engrossed me ; 
new acquaintances presented themselves ; the 
dramatical portion of my life begins to unfold 
itself. Here yedrs compress themselves to- 
gether ; every hour is rich in change, a whole 
cycle of pictures, which, now seen from a dis- 
tant point of view, melt together into one great 
painting — my school-life. As it is to the 
stranger who for the first time ascends the 
mountains, and now looks down from above 
over a sea of clouds and mist, which, by de- 
grees, raises itself or separates, so that now a 
mountain-top with a city peeps forth ; now the 
sun-illumined part of a valley reveals itself. 
Thus comes forward and changes the world of 
my mind. Lands and cities, about which I had 
never dreamed, lay hid behind the mountains 
which bounded the Campagna : history peopled 
every portion of the earth for me, and sang to 
me strange legends and adventures ; every 
flower, every plant, contained a meaning ; but 
most beautiful to me appeared my fatherland, 
the glorious Italia ! I was proud of being a 
Roman ; every point in my native city was 
dear and interesting to me ; the broken capi- 
tals, which were thrown down as corner-stones 
in the narrow streets, were to me holy relics 
— Memnon’s pillars, which sang strangely to 
my heart. The reeds by the Tiber whispered 
to me of Romulus and Remus ; triumphal 
arches, pillars, and statues, impressed upon 
me yet more deeply the history of my father- 
land. I lived in its classical antiquity, and 
the present time, that will speak for itself : my 
teacher of history gave me praise and honour 
for it. 

Every society, the political as well as the 
spiritual, assemblies in the taverns, and the 
elegant circles around the card-tables of the 
rich, all have their harlequin ; he bears now a 
mace, orders, or ornaments : a school has him 
no less. The young eyes easily discover the 
butt of their jests. We had ours, as well as 
any other club, and ours was the most solemn, 
the most grumbling, growling, preaching of 
harlequins, and, on that account, the most ex- 
quisite. The Abbe Habbas Dahdah, an Arab 
by descent, but educated from his earliest 
childhood in the papal jurisdiction, was at this 
time the guide and director of our taste, the 
aesthetical head of the Jesuit school, nay, of the 
Academia Tiberina. 

In later years I have often reflected on poe- 
try, that singular divine inspiration. It ap- 


29 

pears to me like the rich gold ore in the mount- 
ains ; refinement and education are the wise 
workmen who know how to purify it. Some- 
times purely unmixed ore-dust is met with, the 
lyrical improvisation of tile poet by nature. 
One vein yields gold, another silver ; but there 
are also tin, and even more ordinary metals 
found, which are not to be despised, and which 
sometimes can, with polishing and adorning, 
be made to look like gold and silver. Accord- 
ing to these various metals I now rank my 
poets, as golden, silver, copper, and iron men. 
But after these comes a new class, who only 
work in simple potter’s clay — the poetasters — 
yet who desire as much to be admitted to the 
true guild. Habbas Dahdah was one of these, 
and had just ability sufficient to make a sort 
of ware, which with a kind of poetical facility 
he overwhelmed people, with, whom, as re- 
garded deep feeling and poetical spirit, he 
could not measure himself. Easy, flexile ver- 
ses, and the artistical formation of them, so 
that they only brought before the eye existen- 
ces, hearts, and other such things, obtained 
from him admiration and applause. 

It might be, therefore, perhaps only the very 
peculiar melody of Petrarch’s sonnets that at- 
tracted him to this poet. Perhaps, also, only 
fashion, or a fixed idea, a bright gleam in the 
sickliness of his views’ for Petrarch and Hab- 
bas Dahdah were extremely different beings. 
He compelled us to learn by heart almost a 
fourth part of the long epic poem, 44 Africa,”’ 
where salt tears and blows rained down in 
honour of Scipio.* 

The profoundness of Petrarch was daily im- 
pressed upon us. 44 Superficial poets,” said he, 
44 those who only paint with water-colours, 
children of fancy, are the very spawn of cor- 
ruption ; and among the very greatest of these 
that Dante, who set heaven, earth, and hell in 
movement to obtain immortality, which Pe- 
trarch has already won by a single little son- 
net — is disgusting, very disgusting ! To be 
sure he could write verse ! It is these billows 
of sound which carry his Tower of Babel to 
the latest age. If he had only followed his first 
plan, and had written in Latin, he would have 
shewn study ; but that was inconvenient to 
him, and so he wrote in the vulgate which we 
now have. 4 It is a stream,’ says Boccaccio, 

4 through which a lion can swim, and a lamb 
may walk.’ I find not this depth and this sim- 
plicity. There is in him no right foundation, 
an eternal swaying between the past and the 
present ! But Petrarch, that apostle of the 
truth, did not exhibit his fury with the pen by 
placing a dead pope or emperor in hell ; he 
stood in his time like the Chorus in the Greek 
tragedy, a male Cassandra, warning and bla- 
ming popes and princes. Face to face he dared 
to say to Charles the Fourth, 4 One can see in 
thee that virtues *are not heritable !’ When 
Rome and Paris wished to offer him the gar- 
land, he turned to his contemporaries with a 
noble self-consciousness, and bade them to de- 
clare aloud whether he were worthy to be 


* In order to immortalise himself and the Scipios, Pe- 
trarch wrote an epic poem called 44 Africa,” which is now 
forgotten in the glory of his melodious sonnets to Laura, 
which he himself did not set any high value upon . — Au 
thor's Note 


30 


THE IMFROVISATORE. 


crowned as a poet. For three days he sub- 
mitted to an examination as if he were a regu- 
lar schoolboy like you* before he would ascend 
the Capitol, where the King of Naples hung 
around him the purple mantle, and the Roman 
senate gave to him the laurel crown which 
Dante never obtained.” 

Such was every oration which he made, to 
elevate Petrarch and depreciate Dante, instead 
of placing the noble pair side by side, like the 
fragrant night-violet and the blooming rose. 
We had to learn, all his sonnets by heart. Of 
Dante we read not a word ; and I only learned 
through the censure of Habbas Dahdah that he 
had occupied himself with heaven, purgatory, 
and hell, — three elements which attracted me 
in the highest degree, and inspired me with 
the greatest desire to become acquainted with 
his works. But this could only be done in se- 
cret ; Habbas Dahdah would never have for- 
given me meddling w r ith this forbidden fruit. 

One day as I was walking on the Piazzo Na- 
vone, among the piled-up oranges, and the iron 
wares which lay on the ground, among the old 
clothes, and all that chaos of rags which this 
place exhibits, I came upon a table of old books 
and prints. There lay caricatures of maccaro- 
ni-swallowers, Madonnas with the sword in the 
bleeding heart, and suchlike highly dissimilar 
things. A single volume of Metastasio- drew 
my attention ; I had a paolo in my pocket — a 
great sum for me, and the last remains of the 
scudi which Excellenza had given me half a 
year before for pocket-money. I was willing 
to expend a few bajocci* on Metastasio, but I 
eould not separate myself from my whole pao- 
lo. The bargain was nearly closed; when my 
eyes caught a titlepage, “ Divina Comedia di 
Dante” — my forbidden fruit of the tree of the 
knowledge of good and evil ! I threw down 
Metastasio and seized the other ; but the price 
of this was too high for me, three paoli I could 
not raise. I turned the money in my hand till 
it burned like fire, but it would not double it- 
self, and 1 could only beat down the seller to 
that price. This was the best book in Italy — 
the first poetical work in the world, he said, 
and a stream of eloquence over Dante, the de- 
preciated Dante of Habbas Dahdah, poured 
from the lips of the honest man. 

“ Every leaf,” said he, “ is as good as a ser- 
mon. He is a prophet of God, under whose 
guidance one passes through the flames of 
hell, and through the eternal paradise. You do 
not know him, young gentleman ! or otherwise 
you would immediately give the price if I asked 
a scudi for him ! For your whole life long you 
have then the most beautiful book of the father- 
land, and that for two poor paoli !” 

Ah ! I would willingly have given three if I 
had but had them, but now it was with me as 
with the fox and the sour grapes ; I also would 
shew my wisdom, and retailed a part of Hab- 
bas Dahdah’s oration against Dante, whilst I 
exalted Petrarch. 

“ Yes, yes !” said the bookseller, after he had 
vindicated his poet with much violence and 
warmth, “you are too young, and I am too 
much of a layman to be able to judge such peo- 

* A scudi contains ten paolo, and a paoli ten bajocci : 
thes® last are copper coins, the other silver.— Author's 

Noto 


pie. They may both be very good in their way ! 
You have not read him ! you cannot ! A young, 
warm fellow cannot cherish bitterness against 
a world’s prophet !” 

As I now honestly confessed to him that my 
opinion was merely founded upon the judgment 
of my teacher, out of inspiration for his poet's 
works he seized the book and threw it to me, 
demanding only, in return for the paolo short, 
that I would now read it, and not condemn the 
pride of Italy, her beloved, diviie Dante. 

0 how happy that book made me 1 It was 
now my own, my own for ever. I had always 
cherished a doubt of the bitter judgment of 
Habbas Dahdah ; my curiosity and the warmth 
of the bookseller excited me in the highest de- 
gree, so that I could hardly wait for the mo- 
ment wlien, unseen by others, I could begin 
the book. 

A new life was now opened to me ; my im- 
agination found in Dante an undiscovered 
America, where nature operated on a larger 
and more luxuriant scale than I had before 
seen, where were more majestic mountains, a 
richer pomp of colour. I took in the great 
whole, and suffered and enjoyed with the im- 
mortal singer. The inscription over the en- 
trance to hell rung within me, during my wan- 
dering with him below, like the tolling for the 
last judgment : 

“ Through me ye enter the. abode of woe ; 

Through me to endless sorrow arc ye brought ; 
Through me amid the souls accurst ye go. 

Justice did first my lofty Maker move : 

By power Almighty was my fabric wrought, 

By highest wisdom, and by primal love.”* 

1 saw in that air, ever black, like the sand of 
the desert which is whirled by the tempest, the 
race of Adam falling like leaves in autumn, 
whilst lamenting spirits howled in the torrent 
of air. Tears filled my eyes at the sight of no- 
ble, lofty beings who, unparticipants of Chris- 
tianity, had here their abode. Homer, Socra- 
tes, Brutus, Virgil, and many others, the no- 
blest and best of antiquity, were here, for ever 
remote from Paradise. It was not enough for 
me that Dante had made every thing as com- 
fortable and well as it could be in hell. Ex- 
istence there was yet a grief without suffering, 
a hopeless longing ; they belonged still to the 
realm of the damned, were inclosed by the deep 
marshes of hell, from which the sighs of the 
damned rose up bubble on bubble of poisonous 
and pestilent vapour. Wherefore had not 
Christ, when he was down in hell, and again: 
ascended to the right hand of the Father, taken 
all with him out of the Valley of Longing! 
Could love make a selection among the equally 
unfortunate ! I forgot entirely that the whole 
w T as but a fiction. The deep sigh from the sea 
of boiling pitch went to my heart ; I saw them, 
saw the herd of Simonists come up, and the 
demons that pushed them down again with 
their sharp forks. The living descriptions 
stamped themselves deeply on my soul, and 
mingled in my ideas by day and my dreams by 
night. Often when I slept they heard me ex- 
claim, “ Pape Satan, alepp Satan Pape !” They 
fancied that I had combats with the Devil, and 
it was reminiscences of that wiiich I had read 
that I repeated. 


* Wrignt’s Daute 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


In the hours of instruction my mind wander- 
ed — a thousand ideas thronged in upon me. 
With the utmost willingness to do so, I could 
not drive them away. “ What art thou think- 
ing of, Antonio 1” they exclaimed to me ; and 
shame and terror overwhelmed: me, for I knew 
very well what.I was thinking of, — but to leave 
Dante, and not to finish wandering, was to me 
impossible. 

The day seemed -to me long and oppressive, 
like the gilded mantle of lead which the hypo- 
crite was compelled to wear in the hell of 
Dante. With uneasiness of heart I crept to 
my forbidden fruit, and drew in images of ter- 
ror, which punished me for my imagined sins. 
Nay, I felt even the sting of the snakes of the 
pit, which stung and writhed about in flames, 
wherefrom they, revivified like the phoenix, as- 
cended again to spit out their poison. 

The other scholars who slept in the same 
room with me were often awoke in the night 
by my cries, and told of my strange, discon- 
nected talk about hell and the damned. The 
old custodian had seen one morning, to his 
terror, that I had raised myself up in bed, with 
my eyes open, yet fast asleep, called upon 
Lucifer, and wrestled with him, until quite ex- 
hausted I had sunk back on the pillow. 

It was now the universally received opinion 
that I had combats with the Evil One ; my bed 
was sprinkled with holy water, I was enjoined 
to repeat a certain number of prayers before I 
laid myself in bed. Nothing could operate 
more injuriously on my health than exactly this 
mode of treatment ; my blood was put only into 
a greater state of ferment thereby, and I my- 
self into a more anxious condition, for I knew 
the cause of all this, and saw how I betrayed 
it. At length I reached the point of transition, 
and came out of the storm into a sort of 
calm. 

Among all the scholars no one stood higher, 
either by abilities or birth, than Bernardo, the 
life-rejoicing, almost dissolute Bernardo. It 
was his daily jest to ride upon the protecting 
spout high above the fourth story, and to bal- 
ance himself upon a board between the two 
corner windows under the roof. All the up- 
roars in our little school kingdom were attrib- 
uted to him, and that mostly with justice. It 
was wished that the stillness and repose of the 
convent might be diffused over us and the 
whole building, but Bernardo was the disturb- 
ing Kobold, yet he never shewed himself to be 
malicious. It was only with regard to Habbas 
Dahdah that he played a little with the black 
colouring, and then these two were always on 
bad terms. But this did not annoy Bernardo. 
He was the nephew of a senator of Rome, was 
possessed of great wealth, and had brilliant 
prospects in life, “for Fortune,” said Habbas 
Dahdah, “threw her pearls into the hollow 
trees and passed over the slender pines.” 

Bernardo had his determined opinion in ev- 
ery thing ; and when, among his school com- 
panions, he could not make his word effective, 
his hands came to his service, in order to in- 
oculate his sap-green ideas upon the back of 
the refractory : he was always, therefore, the 
dominant spirit. A.tnougn we were oi natures 
extremely dissimilar, there still existed be- 
tween us the best understanding. I was, to 


31 

be sure, always the one who yielded, but even 
this gave him occasion to deride me. 

“Antonio!” said he, “I would cudgel you 
if I only knew that, by so doing, I could excite 
a little gall in you. If you would only for once 
shew some character — strike me in the face 
with your clenched fist when I laugh at you, 
then I could be your most faithful friend ; but 
now I must give up every hope of you !” 

One morning, when we were alone together 
in the great hall, he seated himself upon the 
table before me, looked into my face, laughing, 
and said, — 

“ You are, however, a greater villain than 1 ! 
You play, indeed, an excellent comedy! For 
this, folks have their bed sprinkled, and their 
persons fumed. If you do not guess why, I 
do. You read Dante’s ‘ Comedia !’ ” 

I grew crimson, and inquired how he could 
accuse me of such a thing. 

“ Have you not to-night described the devil 
to me in sleep, just out of the ‘ Divina Come- 
dia. V Shall I tell you a story? You are pos- 
sessed of much fancy, and can enjoy yourself 
over such descriptions. In hell, there are not 
merely fire-seas and infected moors, as you 
know very well from Dante, but also great 
pools all frozen over ; ice, and ice, where the 
souls are eternally frozen fast : when one has 
passed these, one descends to the very deepest 
depth, where they are who have betrayed their 
benefactors ; consequently there is Lucifer, the 
rebel against God, — our greatest benefactor. 
He stands sunk up to the breast in ice, with 
outstretched jaws, in which he holds fast Bru- 
tus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot ; and this last 
has his head downwards, whilst the grim Luci- 
fer shakes his monstrous bat’s wings. See, 
my son, when one has once seen the fellow, 
one does not very soon forget him. I made 
acquaintance with him in Dante’s hell ; and 
you have described him to a hair this night, in 
your sleep. Therefore, I say to you, how it is 
you have been reading Dante ; but then you 
were honester than now. You bade me be 
silent, and mentioned by name our amiable 
Habbas Dahdah. Confess it only, now you are 
awake ! I will not betray you. That is at last 
something in you that I can like. Yes, yes, l 
had always a sort of hope of you. But how 
have you got hold of the book 1 From me you 
might have had it ; I possessed myself of it 
immediately, for, when Habbas Dahdah spoke 
ill of it, I conceived the idea that it was worth 
the trouble of reading. The thick volume reg- 
ularly terrified me ; but, that I might laugh at 
him, I took it in hand, and now I am reading 
it for the third time. Is not hell brilliant? 
Where do you think that Habbas Dahdah will 
go 1 He may do with either hot or cold !” 

My secret was now betrayed ; but I could 
depend on Bernardo’s silence. A more confi- 
dential connexion was knit between us. Our 
conversation, when we were alone, turned 
upon the “ Divina Comedia that occupied 
and inspired me ; and I must converse on that 
which employed my soul and my thoughts. 
“ Dante, and his immortal work,” wps, there- 
fore, the first of my poems which I wrote 
down. 

In my edition of the “Divina Comedia,” 
there was a life of the author, a mere sketch, 


32 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


to be sure, but sufficient to enable me to com- 
prehend his peculiar character. I sang of pure, 
spiritual love in him and Beatrice, described 
his suffering in the struggle between the black 
and the white, the weary wanderings of the 
excommunicated over the mountains, and his 
death among strangers. I spoke with, most 
animation of the flight of the enfranchised 
soul — its glance backwards upon earth, and 
down to the deep. The .whole thing was bor- 
rowed, in small features, from his immortal 
poem. Purgatory, as he himself had sung it, 
opened itself again ; the miracle-tree shone 
with glorious fruit upon its bended branches, 
which were sprinkled by an eternally rushing 
waterfall. He sat in the boat where the angel 
spread out his large white wings as sails, 
whilst the mountains around trembled as the 
purified soul ascended to paradise, where the 
sun and all the angels, like mirrors, reflected 
the beams of the Eternal God ; where all was 
bliss, and where the lowest as well as the high- 
est, participated equally of happiness, according 
to the degree in which every heart could com- 
prehend it. 

Bernardo heard my poem, and considered it 
quite a masterpiece. ‘‘Antonio,” said he, 
“you must repeat that at the festival. It will 
vex Habbas Dahdah ! It is splendid ! Yes, 
yes, this, and none other shall you repeat !” 

I made a movement of dissent. 

“Howl” exclaimed he, “you will not! 
Then I will ! I will torment him with the im- 
mortal Dante. Glorious Antonio, give me 
your poem. I will repeat it. But then it must 
really be given to me ! Will you not be un- 
willing to give up your beautiful plumage to 
deck out the jackdaw! You are really an in- 
comparably good-natured fellow T ; and this will 
be a beautiful act in you ! You will consent!” 

How willingly would I oblige him ; how 
willingly even wmuld I see the fun ! There did 
not need much persuasion. 

It was at this time the custom in the Jesuit 
school, as now in the Propaganda in the Span- 
ish square, that on the 13th of January, “ in 
onorc dei sancti re magi ,” that the greater part 
of the scholars made speeches in public, either 
a poem in one of the various languages which 
was taught here, or in that of his home or na- 
tive country. We ourselves could make choice 
of the subject, Which was only submitted to the 
censorship of our teacher, after which, we were 
permitted to work it out. 

“ And you, Bernardo,” asked Habbas Dah- 
dah, on the day on which we announced our 
themes — “ you, Bernardo, have not chosen any 
thing! You do not belong to the race of sing- 
ing-birds — we may certainly pass by you !’•’ 

“ Oh, no,” was the reply, “ I shall venture 
this time. I have thought of singing of a poet 
— certainly not one of the greatest — I have not 
courage for that ; but I have thought on one 
of the least — on Dante !” 

“Ay, ay,” returned Habbas Dahdah; “he 
will come out — and come out with Dante ! that 
will be a masterpiece ! — that will I gladly hear. 
But as all the cardinals will come, and stran- 
gers from all parts of the world, would it not 
be best to defer this piece of merriment till car- 
nival-time!” And with these words he went 
on • but Bernardo was not to be put off in this 


way, and obtained permission from the other 
teachers. 

Every one now had his theme ; mine was 
the beauty of Italy. 

Each scholar was expected wholly to work 
out his subject himself ; but a sure way ot 
winning over Habbas Dahdah, and diffusing a 
sort of sunshine over his bad-weather counte- 
nance, was to give him a poem to read through, 
and to ask from him assistance and advice ; 
in that case, he commonly worked the whole 
poem over again, botched and mended it, so 
that it remained as bad as at first, only in a 
different way ; and, if it so happened that a 
stranger praised the poem, he would let fall 
the remark, that there were a few sparkles ot 
his own wit which had polished away the rough, 
&c., &c. 

My poem on Dante, winch was now Bernar- 
do’s, he never saw. 

At length the day came. The carriages 
rolled up to the gate ; the old cardinals, in 
their red cloaks with long trains, came in, and 
took their places in the stately arm-chairs. 
Tickets, on which our names were inscribed, 
in the languages in which we were to write our 
poems, were handed about. Habbas Dahdah 
made the opening oration, and now followed 
poems in Syriac, Chaldaic, Coptic, nay, even in 
Sanscrit, English, and other strange tongues 
— nay, the more outlandish and odd the lan- 
guages sounded, the greater were the applause 
and bravos, and clapping of hands, mingled 
with the heartiest laughter. 

With a beating heart I came forward, and 
spoke a few strophes of my “ Italy.” Repeat- 
ed acclamations saluted me ; the old cardinals 
clapped their hands in token of applause, and 
Habbas Dahdah smiled as kindly as it was pos- 
sible for him to do, and moved prophetically 
the garland between his hands ; for, in Italian, 
Bernardo only followed me, and it was not to 
be imagined that the English poem which suc- 
ceeded h'im would win any laurels. 

Now stepped Bernardo before the chair. My 
eye and ear followed him with uneasiness. 
Boldly and proudly he recited my poem on 
Dante ; a deep silence reigned in the hall. The 
wonderful force which he gave it seemed to 
seize upon every one. I knew every word of 
it ; but it sounded to me ljke the song of the 
poet when it is raised on tire wings of music — 
the most unanimous applause was awarded to 
him. The cardinals arose — all was at an end ; 
the garland was given to Bernardo, for al- 
though, for order’s sake, the succeeding poem 
was listened to, and received also its applause, 
people immediately afterwards turned again to 
the beauty and the spirit of the poem on Dante. 

My cheeks burned like fire, my breast heav- 
ed, I felt an infinite, unspeakable happiness, 
my whole soul drank in the incense which was 
offered to Bernardo. I looked at him, he was 
become quite other than I had ever seen him 
before. Pale as death, with his eyes riveted 
to the ground, he stood there like a criminal — 
he, who otherwise had looked so unabashedly 
into every one’s face. Habbas Dahdah seemed 
just like a companion piece to him, and ap- 
peared ready to pluck the garland to pieces 
in his abstraction, when one of the cardinals 
took it from him and placed it on the head ot 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


33 


Bernardo, who bent his knee, and bowed his 
face into both his hands. 

After the festival I sought out Bernardo. 
* To-morrow !” he exclaimed, and tore him- 
self loose from* me. 

On the following day, I observed that he 
shunned me ; and it grieved me, for my heart 
was infinitely attached to him — it needed one 
trusty soul in this world, and it had selected 
him. 

Two evenings passed, he then threw himself 
®n my neck, pressed my hand, and said, “An- 
tonio, I must speak with you ; I cannot bear it 
any longer, and will not, either. When they 
pressed the garland on my head, it was as if 
they had pressed in a thousand thorns. The 
acclamations sounded like jeering ! It was to 
you that the honour belonged ! I saw the joy 
in your eye, and, do you know, I hated you ! 
you were to me no longer that which you had 
been. That is a wicked feeling, I pray you for 
forgiveness ; but we must now part, I am no 
longer at home here. 1 will hence, and not for 
the next year be the jest of the others when 
they find that I have not the stolen plumes. 
My uncle shall and must provide for me. I 
have told him so — I have besought it from 
him — I have done that which is repugnant to 
my nature ; and it seems to me as if you were 
the cause of it all ! I feel a bitterness towards 
you, which wounds me to the soul ! We can 
only be friends under entirely new circum- 
stances ! — and we will be so, promise me, An- 
tonio I” 

“ You are unjust to me,” said I, “ unjust to 
yourself ! Do not let us think any more about 
that miserable poem, or any thing connected 
with it. Give me your hand, Bernardo, and do 
not distress me with such strange talk.” 

“ We will always be friends,” said he, and 
left me. It was late in the evening before he 
came to his chamber ; and the next morning it 
was announced that he had left the school to 
follow another profession. 

“ He is gone like a falling star,” observed 
Habbas Dahdah, ironically ; “ he vanished as 
soon as one noticed the brightness ! The 
whole was a crack — and so was the poem, too. 

I shall manage, indeed, that this treasure is 
preserved ! Then, Holy Virgin ! when one 
looks closely at it, what is it 1 Is it poetry — 
that which runs in and out, without shape or 
consistency 1 At first, I thought it was a vase, 
then a French wine-glass, or a Median sabre ; 
but, when I turned it and drew it, there came 
out the selfsame unmeaning, cut-and-dried 
shape. In three places there is a foot too 
many ; there are horrible hiatuses ; and five- 
and-twenty times has he used the word ‘ divi- 
na,’ as if a poem became divine by the repeti- 
tion of this word. Feeling, and feeling ! that 
is not all which makes the poet ! Wliat a com- 
bating with fancies — now one is here ! now 
one is there ! Neither is it thought, no, dis- 
cretion, golden discretion ! The poet must not 
let himself be run away with by his subject. 
He must be cold, ice-cold — must rend to pieces 
the child of his heart, that he may understand 
every single portion of it ; it is only thus that 
a work of art can be put together, Not with 
all this driving and chasing, and all thi^ wild 
inspiration ! And then they set a garland on 

E 


such a lad ! Flogged he should have been for 
his historical errors, his hiatuses, his misera- 
ble work ! I have vexed myself, and that does 
not suit my constitution ! The abominable 
Bernardo !” 

Such probably was Habbas Dahdah’s speech 
of praise. 


CHAPTER Till. 

A WELCOME AND AN UNWELCOME MEETING THE 

LITTLE ABBESS THE OLD JEW. 

We all missed the wild, wilful Bernardo, and 
none missed him more than I did. It seemed 
to me as if all was empty and deserted around 
me : I could not enjoy my books ; there were 
dissonances in my soul which I could not even 
silence ; music alone brought a momentary har- 
mony. In the tones of the world, my life and 
my whole endeavours first received clearness. 
Here I found more than any poet, than even 
Dante had expressed ; not merely the feelings 
comprehended from the soul-breathing picture, 
but the sensitive part, the ear, drank in from 
living existence. Every evening, before the 
image of the Madonna on the w.all children’s 
voices sang to me remembrances from my own 
childhood, which sounded like a cradle-song 
from the melancholy bagpipe of the Pifferari. 
I heard, indeed, in them the monotonous song 
of the muffled corpse-bearers who carried the 
coffin, of my mother. I began to think about 
the past and of that which was to come. My 
heart seemed so strangely to want room ; I felt 
as if I must sing ; old melodies intoned within 
me, and the words came aloud from my lips ; 
yes, too much aloud, for they disturbed Habbas 
Dadhah, at several rooms’ distance, who sent 
to inform me that this was neither an opera- 
house nor a singing-school, and that there could 
be no quavering in the school of the Jesuits, 
excepting such as was in honour of the Virgin. 
Silently I laid my head against the window- 
frame and looked into the street, but with my 
thoughts introverted. 

“ Felicissima notte, Antonio !”* reached my 
ear. A handsome, proud horse was prancing 
under the window, and then sprang forward 
with his proud rider. It was a papal officer ; 
with joyful rapidity he bowed himself to his 
horse, waved his hand again and again till he 
was out of sight ; but I had recognised him— it 
was Bernardo, the fortunate Bernardo ! How 
different had his life been to mine ! No ! I 
could not think of it ! I drew my hat deeply 
over my brows, and, as if pursued by an evil 
spirit, hastened out, and forth wherever the 
wind. would carry me. I thought not then how 
it was a regulation that no scholar in the Jesu- 
its’ school, Propaganda, or any establishment 
of learning in the Papal States, should go out 
of the building without being accompanied by a 
fellow-student of equal or superior age, and 
might never shew themselves alone without an 
especial permission. Such a universally known 
law as this was never inculcated upon us. I 


* The inhabitants of the north wish each other u good 
night, sleep well !” The Italians wish “ the happiest 
night !” The nights of the south have more than dreams. 
— Author's Note. 


34 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


forgot that my freedom in this way was cir- 
cumscribed, and from this cause went out quite 
calmly. The old custodian thought perhaps 
that I had obtained permission. 

The Corse was crowded with equipages. A 
succession o ' carriages, filled with the natives 
of Rome an 1 strangers, followed each other ; 
they were taxing their evening drive. People 
stood in throngs around the print-sellers’ win- 
dows looking at the engravings, and beggars 
came up to them craving for a bajocco. It was 
difficult to make one’s way through, unless one 
would venture among the carriages. I had just 
slipped through in this manner, when a hand 
took fast hold of my dress, and I heard a well- 
known horrible voice whisper, “ Bon giorno, 
Antonio !” I looked down : there sat my un- 
cle, the horrible Peppo, with the two withered 
legs fastened up to his sides, and with the 
wooden frame on which he shoved himself on- 
wards. We had never been for many years so 
near to each other. I had always made great 
circuits to escape him — had avoided the Span- 
ish Steps, where he sat ; and when I had been 
obliged to pass by him in a procession, or with 
the other scholars, I had always used my ut- 
most endeavours to conceal my face. 

“Antonio, my own blood!” said he, holding 
fast by my coat, “ dost thou not know T thy own 
mother’s brother, Peppo? Think upon St. Jo- 
seph,* and then thou hast my name ! Oh, how 
manly and tall thou hast grown !” 

“Release me !” exclaimed I, for. the people 
around us looked on. 

“Antonio!” said he, “hast thou forgotten 
how we two rode together upon the little ass ? 
Thou sw T eet child ! Yes, now thou sittest upon 
a loftier horse, thou wilt not know thy poor 
uncle — wilt not come to me ‘upon the steps. 
Yet thou hast kissed my hand, slept upon my 
poor straw. Don’t be ungrateful, Antonio !” 

“ Then let me go !” I cried, and tore the coat 
out of his hands, and, slipping between the in- 
tersecting carriages, came into a side street. 
My heart trembled for horror of — yes, what 
shall I call it 1 — wounded pride. I fancied my- 
self to be scorned by every body who had seen 
us ; but this feeling prevailed only for a mo- 
ment, and then gave place to another and a 
much more bitter one. Every word which he 
had said was indeed the truth ; I was really the 
only child of his sister. I felt that my behav- 
iour had been cruel, was ashamed before God 
and myself; it burned like fire in my heart. 
Had I now been alone with Peppo, I would 
have kissed his ugly hands, and prayed him for 
forgiveness. I was shaken to my inmost soul. 

At that moment, the bells of the church of 
St. Agostino rang for the Ave Maria. My sin 
lay heavy upon my soul, and I went in, that I 
might pray to the Mother of God. All was 
empty and dark in the lofty building ; the lights 
upon the various altars burned feebly and dream- 
ily, with beams like tinder in the night when 
the damp sirocco blows. My soul drank in con- 
solation and pardon. 

“ Signore Antonio,” said a voice close to me, 
“ Excellenza is come and the handsome signo- 
ra. They are here from Firenza, and have 
brought with them their little angel. Will not 

* Peppo is the Italian abbreviation of the name Giuseppe 
—Joseph. — Author's Note. 


! you come directly and pay your visit, and give 
your welcome ?” 

It w T as old Fenella, the wife of the porter at 
the Palazzo Borghese. My benefactress w r as 
here with her husband and child. I had not 
seen her for some years. My soul was full of 
joy ; I hastened there, and soon the old friend- 
ly faces greeted me again. 

Fabiani was gentle and gracious, Francesca 
glad as a mother to see me again. She brought 
to me her little daughter, Flaminia, a kind- 
hearted child with wonderfully bright eyes. 
She put forth her mouth immediately for me to 
kiss, came willingly to me, and we were, in 
two minutes, old acquaintances and friends. 
She sat upon my arm, and laughed aloud for 
joy when I danced round the hall with her, and 
sang her one of my merry old songs. 

“Make not my little abbess* a child of the 
world,” said Fabiani, smiling ; “ dost thou not 
see that she bears already the token of her 
honour?” Fie then shewed to me a little sil- 
ver crucifix, which hung by a cord upon the 
child’s breast. “ The holy father gave her this ; 
she bears already her soul-bridegroom upon her 
heart.” 

In the plenitude of their love, the young 
couple had vowed to the church their first fe- 
male child, and the Pope had bestowed upon 
the little one in the cradle this holy sign. As 
a relation of the rich Borghese family, the high- 
est place in the female convents of Rome was 
open to her ; and, therefore, with them and 
with all her connexions she bore the honoura- 
ble name of the Little Abbess. Every story, 
therefore, that was told her, and every sport, 
was calculated to fix her ideas on the world to 
which she peculiarly belonged, on the happiness 
which awaited her. 

She shewed me her Jesus-child, her little 
white-garmented nuns, which went every day 
to mass, set them up in tw r o rows at the table, 
as the nurse had taught her, and told me how 
beautifully they sang and prayed to the Jesus- 
child. I drew for her merry peasants, who, in 
their long woollen cloaks, danced around the 
stone Tritons, and pulchinellos that sat upon 
one another’s shoulders ; and the new pictures 
unspeakably amused the little one. She kissed 
them many times, then tore^hem in her wan- 
tonness, and I must draw new ones, till the 
time came when we must part, by the nurse 
coming to take her to bed, for her bedtime was 
long past. 

Fabiani and Francesca asked me about the 
Jesuit school, about my health, and whether I 
w'ere contented, and promised to be always 
kind to me, and wished me the best fortune. 

“ We must see you every day,” said they ; 
“ come very often whilst we are here.” 

They inquired also about old Domenica on 
the Campagna, and I told how happy she was 
whenever, though it was but seldom, in spring 
and autumn, I went to see her ; how she roast- 
ed chestnuts for me, and seemed to become 
young again in talking of the days which we 
had spent together ; and how I must every 
time see the littl e nook where I had slept, and 

* It is the custom in most of the Italian families, that 
when one of the daughters is destined to the convent from 
childhood, she bears one or other name of honour, indica- 
tive of her destination, as “Jesus’ Bride,” “the Nun,” 
“ the Abbess,” &c. — Author's Note. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


35 


the pictures which I had drawn, and which she 
preserved with her rosary and her old prayer- 
book. 

“ How queerly he bows !” said Francesca to 
Fabiani, as, in the evening, I bowed in taking 
leave. “ It is very excellent to cultivate the 
mind, but neither must the body be neglected : 
so much is thought of that in the world ! But 
that will come, will it not, Antonio 1” said she, 
smiling, and extended her hand for me to kiss. 

It was yet early in the evening when I again 
found myself in the street on my homeward 
way, but still it was pitch-dark. There were 
at that time no lamps in Rome ; they belong, 
as is well known, to the last few years. The 
lamps before the images of the Virgin were the 
only lights in the narrow, ill-paved streets. I 
was obliged to feel my way before me, that I 
might not stumble against any thing ; and thus 
I went on slowly, occupied with the thoughts 
of the adventures of this afternoon. 

In going forward, I struck my hand against 
some object. 

“ The devil !” resounded from a well-known 
voice ; “ don’t knock out my eyes, for then I 
should see still less !” 

“Bernardo!” I joyfully exclaimed ; “have 
we met once more 1” 

“ Antonio ! my dear Antonio !” cried he, and 
caught me by the arm ; “ this is indeed a merry 
meeting. Where do you come from 1 From 
some little adventure ? That I did not expect 
from you ; but you are caught in the path of 
darkness. But where is the slave corporal, 
the cicisbeo, or whatever you call your faithful 
'companion 1” 

“ I am quite alone,” said I. 

“ Alone 1” repeated he ; “ you are at bottom 
a fine fellow ; you should be in the papal guard : 
then, perhaps, we should make something out 
of you.” 

I related to him in a few words the arrival 
of Excellenza and Signora, and expressed my 
delight at this our meeting. His pleasure was 
not less than mine. We thought not of the 
darkness around us, and talked as we went 
along, without thinking where or in what direc- 
tion we went. 

“ Do you see, Antonio,” said he, “ I have 
only just now learned what life is : you know no- 
thing about it. It is too gay a thing to sit there 
on the hard school-bench and listen to Habbas 
Dahdah’s mouldy harangues. I know how to 
manage my horse — you saw me, perhaps, to- 
day ; and the handsome signoras cast glances 
at me — oh, such burning ones ! I am, to be 
sure, a very good-looking fellow, whom the 
uniform becomes ; in this cursad darkness here 
you cannot see me ! My new- comrades have 
led me out into the world ; they are not such 
recluses as you. We empty our glasses to the 
well-being of the state, and have also little ad- 
ventures of which his holiness would not en- 
dure to hear. What a foolish fellow you are, 
Antonio ! I have had ten years’ experience in 
these lew months. Now I feel my youth, it 
boils in my blood, it wells forth in my heart, 
and I enjoy it — enjoy it in copious draughts, 
whilst my lips burn, and this exciting thirst is 

ur.ailaved.” * 

* 

“ Your companions art not good, Bernardo,” 

said I. 


“Not good !” interrupted he ; “ don’t preach 
me any sermon ! What can you say about my 
goings on 1 My companions are of the purest 
patrician blood that Rome possesses ; we are 
the holy father’s guard of honour ; his blessing 
absolves our little sins. After I had left school, 
I too had some of these conventual notions 
about me, but I was wise enough not to let my 
new companions observe it ; I did as they did ; 
my flesh and blood, my whole proper I, thrilled 
with joy and life, and I followed this impulse 
because it was the strongest ; but I perceived 
-at the same time a hateful, bad voice within 
me — it was the Propagandist convent breed- 
ing, and the last remains of good-childism, 
which said, ‘ Thou art no longer innocent as a 
child !’ Since then I laugh at it, I understand 
it better. I am a man ! the child is shook off: 
it was that which cried when it could not have 
its way. But here we are really at the Chia- 
vica, the best inn where artists assemble. 
Come in ; we must empty a bottle of wine to- 
gether, for our happy meeting’s sake — come 
in ; it is merry within !” 

“ What are you thinking of!” replied I. “If 
they should know at the Jesuit school that I 
have been here with an officer of the papal 
guard !” 

“ Yes, that would be a great misfortune ! 
To drink a glass of wine, and to hear the for- 
eign artists sing their songs in their native 
speech, German, French, English, and the Lord 
knows what tongues ! It’s a merry thing, you 
may think !” 

“ What may be suitable for you is forbidden 
to me ; do not talk to me about it, and — ” I 
interrupted myself, because I heard laughter 
and shouting from a little side-street, and was 
desirous of turning the conversation to other 
subjects : “ there is such a crowd of people to- 
gether — what can it be 1 I think the sport goes 
on under the image of the Madonna and, so 
saying, I drew him towards it. 

Rude men and boys of the lowest class had 
closed up the street ; they made a large circle 
around an old Jew, whom, as we found, they 
would compel to jump over a stick, which one 
of the fellows held, because he wished to go 
out of the street. 

It is well known that in Rome, the fkst city 
of Christendom, the Jews are only permitted 
to live in their allotted quarter, the narrow and 
dirty Ghetto, the gate of which is closed every 
evening, and soldiers keep watch that none 
may come in or go out. Once a year, the old- 
est amongst them are obliged to go to the Cap- 
itol, and, kneeling, pray for permission to live 
yet one year longer in Rome ; which they ob- 
tain by binding themselves to bear the expenses 
of the carnival, and promising that all of them, 
once in the year, on an appointed day, shall go 
to a Catholic church and hear a sermon for 
their conversion. 

The old man whom we here saw had come 
alone on this dark evening through the street 
where the bo-™ were pursuing their sport, ana 
the men were playing at iiioru. 

“Do you see the Jew!” one of them n?fo 
said, and began to scoff at and ridicule the old 
man ; and then, as he pursued his way in si- 
lence, they closed up the street. One of the 
fellows, a thick, broad-shouldered man, held a 


THE IMPR0V1SAT0RE. 


S6 

long stick stretched out, and cried, “ Nay, Jew, 
take thy legs with thee, however ; they will 
shut the Ghetto, thou wilt not get in to-night. 
Let us see how nimble thou art in the legs !” 

“ Leap, Jew !” cried all the boys ; “ Abra- 
ham’s God will help thee !” 

“What harm have I done you!” said he. 
“ Let me, an old man, go on my own way, and 
make not a jest of my grey hair before her to 
whom you yourselves pray for pardon and he 
pointed to the image of the Madonna just by. 

“ Dost thou think,” said the fellow, “ that 
Madonna troubles herself about a Jew! Wilt 
thou jump, thou old hound 1” and he now clench- 
ed his fist in his face, and the. boys pressed in a 
closer circle around him. 

With this Bernardo sprang forth, pushed the 
nearest aside, snatched in an instant the stick 
out of the fellow’s hand, swung round his sword 
above him, held the stick which he had taken 
from him before him, and cried in a strong, 
manly voice, “ Jump thou, or I will cleave thy 
head ! — delay not ! — by all the saints, I’ll split 
thy skull if thou do not jump over it !” 

The fellow stood as if all heaven had fallen 
amid the astonished crowd. The thundering 
words, the drawn sabre, the papal officer uni- 
form, all electrified him, and, without replying 
one word, he gave a great spring over the 
stick, which he had just held before the poor 
Jew. The whole assembly appeared equally 
surprised ; no one ventured to say a word, but 
looked astonished by that which had happened. 

Scarcely had the fellow leapt over, than Ber- 
nardo seized him by the shoulder, and, striking 
him lightly on the cheek with the flat of his 
sabre, said, 

“Bravo, my hound! well done! Yet once 
more this trick, and then, I think, thou wilt 
have had enough of this dog’s play !” 

The fellow was obliged to leap, and the 
people, who went over to the merry side of 
the thing, cried “Bravo!” and clapped their 
hands. 

“Where art thou, Jew?” asked Bernardo. 
“ Come, I will lead thee !” But nobody re- 
plied ; the Jew was gone. 

“ Come,” said I, when we were out of the 
crowd — “ come, let them say what they may, 
I will drink a bottle of wine with you. I will 
drink your health. May we always be friends 
in whatever circumstances we may be !” 

“ You are a fool, Antonio !” replied he, “ and 
I also at bottom, to have vexed myself about 
the rude fellow. I think that he will not speed- 
ily be making any body jump again.” 

We went into the hostel ; none of the lively 
guests observed us. There stood in a corner 
a little table, and here we bade them bring us a 
bottle of wine, and drank to our happy meeting 
and to the endurance of our friendship; then 
we parted. 

I returned to the Jesuit school* where the 
old custodian, my particular friend, let me in 
unobserved of any one, and I was quickly 
asleep and dreaming of this evening’s many 
adventures. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE JEW MAIDEN. 

That I had been out for an evening without 


permission, nay, drunk wine also in an inn with 
Bernardo, troubled me afterwards ; but Fortune 
favoured me — nobody missed me, or, if they 
did, they supposed, like the old custodian, that 
I had received permission, for I was indeed 
considered to be the quietest and the most con 
scientious of the scholars. The days glided on 
smoothly for weeks ; I studied industriously, 
and visited in the meantime my noble benefac- 
tress : these visits were my highest recreation. 
The little abbess became dearer to me every 
day ; I took to her the pictures which I myself 
when a child had drawn, but when she had 
played some minutes with them they flew in 
many pieces about the floor ; these I collected, 
and joined again for her. 

At that time I was reading Virgil. The sixth 
book, where the Cumaean sibyl conducts iEneas 
down to the lower regions, interested me great- 
ly, for it bore a relationship to that of Dante. 
With this I thought of my poem, and that brought 
Bernado vividly to my mind, whom I had not 
seen for so long a time. I longed for him. 
This was precisely on one of those days in the 
week on which the gallery of the Vatican stood 
open to the public. I obtained leave of absence 
to go and see the glorious marble gods and the 
beautiful pictures ; but that which I particularly 
wished for was to meet with my dear Bernardo. 

I was already in the great open colonnade 
where the most beautiful bust of Raphael stands, 
and where the whole ceiling is covered with ex- 
quisite pictures from the Bible, drawn by this 
great master and finished by his scholars. The 
strange arabesques on the walls, the legions of 
angels, which are either kneeling in every arch 
or spreading forth their great wings towards the 
Infinite, were not new to me ; yet I lingered 
here a long time as if contemplating them, but 
waiting in reality for any lucky -chance which 
might bring Bernardo there. I leaned over the 
balustrade of masonry, and contemplated the 
magnificent range of mountains, the proud line 
of the waves beyond the Campagna, but my eye 
at the same time looked down into the court of 
the Vatican to see if it were not Bernardo when- 
ever I heard a sword ring upon the broad flag- 
stones : but he came not! 

In vain I wandered through the arcades, vis- 
ited the Nile-group and the Laocoon — all my 
looking was only folly, and I grew out of hu- 
mour. Bernardo was not to be discovered, and, 
therefore, my homeward way seemed to me 
about as interesting as the Torso and the splen- 
did Antinous. 

Now skipped a light figure in helmet and with 
ringing spurs along the passage, and I after it ; 
it was Bernardo. His joy was not less than 
mine ; he drew me hastily along with him, for 
he had, he said, a thousand things to tell me. 

“You do not know what I have suffered and 
still suffer ! You shall be my doctor — you alone 
can help me to the magical plants.” 

With these words he led me through the 
great hall, where the papal Swiss kept guard, 
into a large room fitted up for the accommoda- 
tion of the officer on duty. 

“ But you are not ill ?” I inquired ; “ you can- 
not be so ! your eyes and your cheeks burn with 
the glow of life.” 

“ Oh, yes, they burn,” said he — “ I burn from 
head to foot ; but it is all right ! You are my 


THE IMPROVISATORE, 


37 


star ot Iuck — you bring with you charming ad- 
ventures and good ideas. You must help ! sit 
down. You do not know how much I have 
lived through since that evening which we two 
spent together. But I will confide all to you — 
you are an honest friend, and must have a share 
in the adventure.” 

He would not allow me to speak — I must 
hear that which excited him so much. 

“ Do you remember the Jew — the old Jew 
whom the fellow w'ould force to leap over the 
stick, and who hurried away without thanking 
me for my knightly help 1 I soon had forgotten 
him and the whole history. A few days after- 
wards chance led me past the entrance ipto the 
Ghetto ; I did not observe it until the soldier 
who had his post at the gate presented arms, 
because I now belong to the people of rank. I 
returned his greeting, and saw with that a hand- 
some crowd of black-eyed girls of the Hebrew 
race just within the gate, and so, as you may 
imagine, I was possessed with the desire to go 
down through the narrow, dirty street. It was 
a w r hole synagogue within ; houses jostling one 
against another high into the air — from every 
window w r as heard ‘ Bereschit Bara Elohim !’ 
head to head, just as if they w r ere going to pass 
over the Red Sea. Round about hung old 
clothes, umbrellas, and suchlike Rag-Fair 
goods. I skipped among iron-wares, pictures, 
and dirt, of course, and heard what a buzzing 
and screaming there was* whether I wmuld not 
trade, sell, or buy ; they would hardly let me 
have time to notice a pair of black-eyed, beau- 
tiful children, which laughed* at me- from the 
door. It was such a v T andering, you may trust 
me, as Dante might have described. All at 
once an old Jew fell upon me, bowed himself 
down before me as if I had been the holy father. 

“ ‘ Excellenza,’ said he, ‘ my noble deliverer 
— the saviour of my life, blessed be the hour in 
which I saw you ! Think not that old Iianoch 
is ungrateful !’ and much more which I did not 
understand and cannot now remember. I now 
recognised him ; it was the old Hebrew w r ho 
should have taken the leap. 

“ ‘ Here is my poor house,’ continued he, ‘ but 
the threshold is too humble for me to pray you 
to cross it and with this he kissed my hands 
and my dress. I wished to get awray, for the 
whole neighbourhood was gazing upon us ; but 
just then I cast my eyes upwards to the house, 
and I saw the most beautiful head that I ever 
had seen — a marble Venus wfith warm blood in 
her cheeks, and eyes like the daughters of Ara- 
bia. Thus you can very well conceive that I 
followed the old Jew in — he had, indeed, invi- 
ted me. The passage was truly as narrow and 
dark as if it had led into the grave of the Scip- 
ios, and the stone steps and the handsome w T ood- 
en gallery — yes, they were, in particular, form- 
ed to teach people stability in walking, and cir- 
cumspection to the extremest finger-point. In 
the room itself it did not seem so much amiss, 
only the girl was not there ; and what did I 
want to see besides 1 I had now to sit and lis- 
ten to a long speech of gratitude, in which the 
multitude of eastern figures of speech would 
certainly have charmed your poetical turn of 
mind. I let *it go on, thinking to myself ‘she 
will come at last !’ but she came not. In the 
meantime the Jew started an idea which, under 


other circumstances, would have been very 
good. He imagined that I, as a young man 
who was living in the world, should want mon- 
ey, but yet, at the same time, have no super- 
abundance of it — that I had need occasionally 
to fly to compassionate souls, who, at from 
twenty to thirty per cent., shewed their Chris- 
tian love, but that he (and it is a miracle in the 
Jewish kingdom) would lend to me without any 
percentage' at all. Do you hear l with no per- 
centage ! I was a noble young man — he would 
trust himself to my honesty ! I had protected 
a twig of the stem of Israel, and not a splinter 
of this should rend my clothing ! 

“ As I was not in need of any money, I did 
not. take any; so he then besought me to con- 
descend to taste his wine — the only bottle which 
he possessed. I know r not wiiat reply I made, 
but this I know T , that the loveliest girl of orient- 
al descent entered. There were form and col- 
our — hair shining and jet-black as ebony. She 
presented to me excellent wine of Cyprus, and 
that kingly blood of the line of Solomon crim- 
soned her cheeks as I emptied a glass to her 
happiness. You should have heard her speak 
— heard her thank me for her father, which, in- 
deed, it w'as not worth the trouble. It sounded 
like music in my ears — it was no earthly being ! 
She then vanished again, and only the old man 
remained.” 

“ The whole is just like a poem !” I exclaim- 
ed ; “it could be beautifully put into verse.” 

“ You do not know,” continued he, “ how I 
have since tormented myself — how I have form- 
ed schemes in my head, and then pulled them 
dowm again, for meeting again with my daugh- 
ter of Zion. Only think, I wmnt dowm there to 
borrow money which I did not want ; I bor- 
rowed twenty silver scudi for eight days, but I 
did not get to see her. I took them unchanged 
back again to him on the third day, and the old 
man smiled and rubbed his hands, for he had 
not actually so entirely relied upon my boasted 
honesty. I praised his wine of Cyprus, but she 
brought me none ; he himself presented it with 
his thin, trembling hands. My eyes peered into 
every corner — she was nowhere. I saw her 
not, only as I went down the steps it seemed to 
me that a curtain in an open window moved ; 
it might be she. 

“ ‘ Adieu, signora,’ I exclaimed, but all was 
still as a wall — nothing shewed itself. I have 
advanced no further in my adventure — give me 
counsel. To give her up I cannot and will not ! 
What shall I dol Strike out a brilliant idea, 
my heart’s youth ! Be to me a Juno and Venus, 
which led iEneas and Libya’s daughter togeth- 
er into the lonely grotto.” 

“ What will you have me to do I I do not 
comprehend how I can do any thing here.” 

“ You can do every thing, wdiatever you will. 
The Hebrew is really a beautiful language, a 
poetical picture- world ; you shall study it, and 
take a Jew for your teacher ; I will pay for the 
lessons. Do you have the old Hanoch, for I have 
discovered that he belongs to the learned por- 
tion in Ghetto. When your true-hearted man- 
ner has w r on him, then fou can make the ac- 
quaintance of his daughter, and then you must 
bring me in also, but at full gallop — at full, fly- 
ing gallop. I have burning poison in my blood 
— the burning poison of love. You must go to- 
day to the Jew.” 


38 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


“ That I cannot,” I replied ; “ you do not 
take into consideration my circumstances — 
what a part I should have to play ; and how can 
you, dear Bernardo, demean yourself so as to 
have a love affair with a Jew girll” 

“Oh, that you do not understand!” inter- 
rupted he ; “ Jew girl or not has nothing to do 
with it, if she is only good for any thing ! Now, 
thou beloved youth, my own excellent Antonio, 
set about studying Hebrew — we will both of us 
study it, only in different ways. Be reasonable, 
and think how very much you hereby promote 
my happiness.” 

“You know,” I said, “how sincerely, with 
my whole soul, I am attached to you — you know 
how your preponderating force seizes upon my 
thoughts and my whole will. If you were angry, 
you could destroy me ! — I should be forced into 
your magic circle. I judge not your views in 
life by my own ; every one must follow his own 
nature. Neither do I consider the mode by 
which you would seize on pleasure to be sinful, 
for that is according to ypur cast of mind. I 
am quite different ; do not over-persuade me 
into an undertaking which, even if it turned out 
favourably, could not tend to your happiness.” 

“Good — good!” said he, interrupting me; 
and I saw the distant, proud glance with which 
he so often had regarded Habbas Dahdah, when 
he, from his position, was the deciding party ; 
“good, Antonio, it is nothing but a jest, the 
whole of it. You shall not have to do penance 
on my account. But where would have been 
the harm of your learning a little Hebrew, and 
that from my Jew, I cannot comprehend. But 
not a word about it ! — thanks for your visit ! 
Will you eat \ — will you drink 1 Here they are 
at your service.” 

I was dumb ; the tone in which he spoke, his 
whole manner showed that he was offended. 
Icy coldness and formal politeness met the 
warm pressure of my hand. Troubled and out 
of spirits, I hastened home. 

I felt that he was unjust — that I had acted as 
was my duty to do ; and yet there were mo- 
ments in which it seemed as if I had acted un- 
kindly to him. In one of these combats with 
myself I went through the Jews’ quarter, hoping 
that my fortunate star would conduct me to 
some adventure which should turn out to the 
benefit of my dear Bernardo. But I did not 
once see the old Jew ; unknown faces looked 
out from doors and windows, dirty children lay 
upon the steps among all sorts of old trash of 
iron and clothes, and the eternal shouting of 
whether I would not buy or sell almost deafen- 
ed me. Some young girls were playing at shut- 
tlecock, from window to window, across the 
street. One of these was very handsome ; 
could it be Bernardo’s beloved 1 I involuntarily 
took off my hat, but the next moment, ashamed 
of doing so, I stroked my head with my hand, 
as if it had been on account of the warmth, and 
not of the girls, that I uncovered my head. 


CHAPTER X. 

A YEAR LATER THE ROMAN CARNIVAL THE 

SINGER. 

If I muEt uninterruptedly follow the thread | 


which connects together Bernardo’s love and 
my ramble through Ghetto, I must pass over 
two whole years of my life ; but these years had 
in their daily progress onward much more for 
me than the making me twice twelve months 
older. It was a sort of interlude in the drama 
of my life. 

I seldom saw Bernardo, and when we did 
meet he was just the same merry-hearted, bold 
young acquaintance as ever ; but confidential 
as before he never seemed to be, the cold, well- 
bred air betrayed itself from under the mask of 
friendship ; if troubled and depressed me, and I 
had not the courage to ask how it had gone 
with his love-affair. 

I very often went to the Borgliese Palace, 
and found with Excellenza, Fabiani, and Fran- 
cesca, a true home, yet often, also, found occa- 
sion for deep pain. My soul was filled with 
gratitude to every one of them for all which I 
had received from them, and, therefore, any 
grave look from them cast a shade upon my 
life’s happiness. Francesca commended my 
good qualities, but wished now to perfect me. 
My carriage, my mode of expressing myself, 
she criticised, and that with severity — certain- 
ly with great severity — so much so as to bring 
tears to my eyes, although I was a tall youth 
of eighteen. The old Excellenza, who had 
taken me from Domenico’s hut to his magnifi- 
cent home, was also just as cordially kind to 
me as at the first time when we met ; but he, 
too, pursued the signora’s mode of education 
with me. I did not take the same interest as 
himself in plants and strange flowers, and this 
he considered as a want of taste for that which 
was solid ; he thought that I was too much oc- 
cupied by my own peculiar individuality — I did 
not come sufficiently out of myself — did not let 
the radius of the mind intersect the great circle 
of the world. 

“ Reflect, my son,” said he, “ that the leaf 
which is rolled up in itself withers.” 

But after every warm conversation that he 
had with me he patted me again upon the 
cheek, and consoled me by ironically saying 
that we lived in a bad world, and we must every 
one of us be pressed like dried flow T ers, if the 
Madonna were to have handsome specimens of 
us. Fabiani looked at every thing on the cheer- 
ful side, laughed at both of their well-meant 
lectures, whilst he assured them that I never 
should become learned like Excellenza, nor 
piquant like Francesca, but that I should be of 
a third character, which also belonged to life, 
and which was not to be despised either. And 
then he called for his little abbess, and with her 
I soon forgot all my small troubles. 

The family intended to pass the following 
year in the north of Italy ; the warm summer 
months they would spend at Genoa, and the 
winter in Milan. By me also, at the same 
time, a great step was to be taken ; I was to 
enter by a sort of examination into the rank of 
abbe, and thus gain a higher position in life than 
I had hitherto possessed. 

Before the departure of the family a great 
ball was given in the Borghese Palace, to which 
I also was invited. Pitch garlands burned be- 
fore the house, and all the torches which were 
borne before the carriages of the guests were 
stuck into iron arms upon the w 11, so that this 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


39 


seemed like a complete cascade of fire. Papal 
soldiers were stationed at the gates. The lit- 
tle garden was decorated with bright-coloured 
paper-lamps ; the marble steps were magnifi- 
cently lighted, and upon every step, beside the 
wall, stood vases filled with flowers or small 
orange-trees, which diffused their fragrance 
around. Soldiers leaned their shoulders against 
the doors. There was a throng of richly dress- 
ed servants 

Francesca was splendidly beautiful*; the 
costly bird-of-paradise head-dress which she 
wore, and her white satin dress with its rich 
lace, became her most exquisitely, but that she 
extended to me her hand — yes, that I thought 
the most beautiful of all ! In two halls, in 
each of which was a full orchestra, floated the 
dancers. 

Among these was Bernardo, and he was 
handsome ; the scarlet, gold-embroidered uni- 
form, the narrow, white breeches, all fitted as 
if but a part of the noble figure ; he danced 
with the most lovely women, and they smiled 
confidingly and tenderly upon him. That which 
vexed me was that I could not dance ; neither 
did any body take any notice of me. In my 
own home it seemed to me that I was the great- 
est stranger among strangers. But Bernardo 
offered me his hand, and all my ill-humour was 
again gone. 

Behind the long red curtains, by the open 
window, we drank together the foaming cham- 
pagne ; he clinked his glass familiarly against 
mine. Beautiful melodies streamed through 
the ear*into our hearts, and every thought of a 
friendship less warm than in former days was 
extinguished. I ventured to mention even the 
handsome Jewish maiden ; he laughed, and 
seemed quite cured of his deep wound. 

“ I have found another little golden bird,” 
said he, “ which is tamer, and has sung away 
my whim. We will therefore let the other fly ; 
and it is gone indeed, has escaped away out of 
the Jews’ quarter — nay, even out of Rome, if I 
am to believe my people !” 

Once more we joined glasses ; the champagne 
and the enlivening music infused twofold life 
into our blood. Bernardo again was in the midst 
of the dance ; I stood alone there, but that great 
sea of happiness was in my soul which makes 
one right glad. to embrace the whole world. 
Down in the street below shouted the poor lads, 
as they saw the sparks fly from the pitch gar- 
lands ; I thought upon my own poor childhood, 
when I also had played like them, and now stood, 
as if at home, in the splendid ball-room, among 
the first families of Rome. Thanks and love 
to the Mother of God, who had led me so ten- 
derly forwards in the world, filled my whole 
soul ; I bent my knees in adoration, and the 
long thick curtains hid me from the eyes of all. 
I was infinitely happy ! 

The night was over ; yet two days more, and 
the whole family left Rome. Habbas Dahdah 
impressed upon me every hour what this year 
was to bring me — the name and the dignity of 
an abbe. I studied industriously, scarcely 
ever saw Bernardo, or any other acquaintance. 
Weeks extended themselves into months, and 
these brought on the day in which, after close 
examination, I was to assume the black dress 
and the short silk cloak. 


All within me sung victoria. The lofty pines, 
and newly sprung-up anemones, the crier in the 
streets, and the light cloud which floated through 
the blue air 1 

With the short silk cloak of the abbe, I had 
become a new and happier person. Francesca 
had sent me a bill of a hundred scudi, for my 
necessities and my pleasure. In my delight I 
hastened up the Spanish Steps, threw a silver 
scudi to uncle Peppo, and hastened away, with- 
out hearing more from him than his “Excel- 
lenza, Excellenza Antonio !” 

It was in the first days of February, the al- 
mond-tree blossomed, the orange-trees became 
more and more yellow, the merry carnival was 
at hand, as if it were a festival to celebrate my ♦ 
adoption into the rank of abbe ; heralds on 
horseback, with trumpets and splendid velvet 
banners, had already announced its approach. 
Never before had I yet wholly enjoyed its de- 
lights, never given myself wholly up to that 
spirit of the time, “ the madder the merrier !” 

When I was a little child, my mother feared 
that I should get hurt in the crowd, and I ob- 
tained only momentary glimpses of the whole 
merriment, as she stood with me in some safe 
corner of the street. As a scholar ’in the Jes- 
uits’ school, I had seen it in the same manner, 
when permission was given to me, with some 
•of the other scholars, to stand upon the flat 
roof of the side-buildings of the Doria Palace ; 
but now to be able by myself to wander about 
from one end of the street to the other, to mount 
the Capitol, to go to Trastevere, — in short, to 
go and to be just wherever I myself wished 
was a thing hardly to have been thought of 
How natural was it then that I should thro\% 
myself into the wild stream, and delight my- 
self with every thing just like a child ! Least 
of all did I think that the most serious adven- 
ture of my life was now to begin ; that an oc- 
currence, which had once ‘occupied me so vivid- 
ly and so entirely, the lost seed-corn, forgotten 
and out of sight, should now shew itself again 
like a green, fragrant plant, which had wound 
itself firmly around my own life’s tree. 

The carnival was all my thought. I went 
early in the morning to the Piazza del Popolo 
that I might see the preparations for the races, 
walked in the evening up and down the Corso, 
to notice the gay carnival-dresses which were 
hung out, figures with masks and in full cos- 
tume. I hired the dress of an advocate, as be- 
ing one of the merriest characters, and scarce- 
ly slept through the whole night that I might 
think over and regularly study my part. 

The next day seemed to me like a holy fes- 
tival ; I was as happy as a child ! All round 
about in the side-streets the comfit-sellers set 
up their booths and tables, and displayed their 
gay wares.* The Corso was swept, and gay 
carpets were hung out from all the windows. 
About three o’clock, according to the French 
mode of reckoning time, I went to the Capitol, 
to enjoy, for the first time, the beginning of the 
festival. The balconies were filled with for 
eigners of rank ; the senator sat in purple upon 


* These comfits are small red and white plaster of Paris 
balls, as larg-e as peas ; sometimes also they are grains of 
corn rolled in a paste of plaster of Paris. During the car- 
nival, people throw them in each other’s faces. — Author's 
Note. 


40 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


a thione of velvet; pretty, little pages, with 
feathers in their velvet caps, stood on the left, 
before the papal Swiss guard. Then came in 
a crowd of the most aged Jews, who kneeled 
down, bare-headed, before the senator. I knew 
?ne of them, it was Hanoch, the old Jew, whose 
laughter had so greatly interested Bernardo. 

The old man was the speaker, made a sort 
of oration, in which he prayed, according to old 
usage, for permission, for himself and his people 
to live yet a year longer in Rome, in the quar- 
ter which whs appointed to them ; promised to 
go once during that time into the Catholic 
church,, and prayed furthermore that, accord- 
ing to old custom, they might themselves run 
through the Corso before the people of Rome, 
might pay all the expense of the horse-racing, 
together with the offered prize-money, and 
might provide the gay velvet banners. The 
senator gave a gracious nod (the old custom of 
setting the foot upon the shoulder of the suppli- 
cant was done away with), rose up amid a 
flourish of music in procession, and, descending 
the steps, entered his magnificent carriage, in 
which the pages also had a place ; and thus 
was the carnival opened. The great bell of the 
Capitol rang for gladness, and I sped home 
quickly that I might instantly assume my ad- 
vocate’s dress. In this it seemed to me that I 
was quite another person. 

With a kind of self-satisfaction I hastened 
down into the street, where a throng of masks 
already saluted me. They were poor working 
people, who on these days acted like the rich- 
est nobility ; their whole finery was the most 
original, and at the same time the cheapest in 
the world. They wore over their ordinary 
dress a coarse shirt stuck all over with lemon- 
peel, which was to represent great buttons ; a 
bunch of green salad on their shoulders and 
shoes ; a wig of fennel ; and great spectacles 
eut out of orange-peel. 

I threatened them all with actions at law, 
shewed them in my book of laws the regulations 
which forbade such luxuriousness in dress as 
theirs, and then, applauded by them all, hasten- 
ed away to the long Corso, which was changed 
from a street into a masquerade-hall. From all 
the windows, and round a# the balconies and 
boxes erected for the occasion, were hung 
bright-coloured carpets. All the way along, by 
the house-sides, stood an infinite number of 
chairs, “ excellent places to see from,” as those 
declared who had them to let. Carriages fol- 
lowed carriages, for the greatest part filled with 
masks, in two long rows — the one up, the other 
down. Some of these had even their wheels 
covered with laurel-twigs, the whole seeming 
like a moving pleasure-house ; and amid these 
thronged the merry human crowd. All win- 
dows were filled with spectators. Handsome 
Roman women, in. the dress of officers, with 
the moustachio over the delicate mouth, threw 
comfits down to their acquaintance. I made a 
speech to them, summoning them before the 
tribunal, because they threw, not only comfits 
into the fa^es, but fire-glances also into the 
heart ; they cast (J ow n flowers upon me, as a 
reward for my speech. 

I met with a decked-out little old woman, 
attended by her cicisbeo ; the way was blocked 
up to us for a few moments by a contest among 


a crowd of Pulchinellos, and the good lady was 
obliged to listen to my eloquence. 

“ Signora,” said I, “ do you call that keeping 
your vow 1 Is this maintaining the Roman 
Catholic customs as you ought to dol Ah, 
where now is Lucretia, the wife of Tarquinius 
Colatinus? For this do you and many other 
women of Rome send out their respectable hus- 
bands in the carnival time, and let them go in 
cxercitia with the monks of Trastevere. You 
promise to lead a quiet, God-fearing life in your 
house, and your husbands mortify their flesh in 
the time of merriment, and pray and labour 
night and day within the walls of the convent. 
Thus you get free play, and flirt about with 
your gallants on the Corso and about Festino ! 
Ay, signora, I summon you before the tribunal, 
according to the sixteenth clause of the twen- 
ty-seventh law.” 

An emphatic blow with her fan on my face 
was my answer, the real cause of which was, 
we may suppose, that I had, quite innocently, 
hit upon the truth. 

“Are you mad, Antonio 1” whispered her 
conductor to me, and both made their escape 
among sbirri, Greeks, and shepherdesses. By 
those few words I had recognised him : it was 
Bernardo. But who could the lady be 1 

“ Luogi , Luogi ! Patroni /” cried those who 
had chairs to let. I was bewildered in my 
thoughts ; but yet who will think on a carni- 
val’s day 1 A crowed of harlequins, with little 
bells on their shoulders and shoes, danced 
around me, and a new advocate upon stilts, the 
height of a man, strode in above us. 'As if he 
recognised a collegian in me, he joked about 
the humble position in which I stood, and as- 
sured them that it was only he alone who could 
win any cause, for upon the earth, to which I 
was stuck fast, there was no justice — it was to 
be found only above ; and then he pointed into 
the higher, pure air in which he stood, and 
stalked on further. 

On the Piazza Colonna was a band of music. 
The merry doctors and shepherdesses danced 
joyously around, even in the midst of the single 
troop of soldiers, which to preserve order me- 
chanically v'alked up and down the street among 
the carriages and the throng of human beings. 
Here I again began a profound speech, but there 
came up a writer, and then it was all over with 
me, for his attendant, who ran before him with 
a great bell, jingled it so before my ears that I 
could not even hear my own words ; at that 
moment also was heard the cannon-shot, which 
was the signal that all carriages must leave the 
streets, and that the carnival was at an end for 
this day. 

I obtained a stand upon a w r ooden scaffolding. 
Below me moved the crow 7 d, without allowing 
itself to be disturbed by the soldiers, who warn- 
ed them to make way for the horses, that would 
soon pass at a wild speed through the street, 
wdiere no causeway made a determined path. 

At the end of the street, by the Piazza del 
Popolo, the horses were led up to the barrier. 
They all seemed half wild. Burning sponges 
were fastened to their backs, little rockets be- 
hind their ears, and iron points hanging loose, 
which in the race spurred them till the blood 
came, w r ere secured to their sides. The grooms 
could scarcely hold them. The cannon was 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


41 


fired. The rope before the barrier fell, and 
now they Hew like a storm-wind past me up 
the Corso. The tinsel glittered ; their manes 
and the gaudy ribands floated in the air ; sparks 
of Are flew from their hoofs. The whole mass 
of people cried after them, and, at the same 
moment in which they had passed, streamed 
out again into the open mid-path, like the waves, 
which close again after the ship’s keel. 

The festival was at an end for the day. I 
hastened home to take off my dress, and found 
in my room Bernardo, who was waiting for nfe. 

“ You here !” I exclaimed ; “ and your donna, 
where, in all the world, have you left her'?” 

“ Hush !” said he, and threatened me jest- 
ingly with his finger ; “ do not let that come to 
an affair of honour between us ! Yet how could 
you get the whimsical idea of just saying what 
you did say 1 — but we will give absolution and 
shew mercy. You must go with me this even- 
ing to the Theatre Aliberto ; the opera of 
‘ Dido’ is given there to-night. There will be 
divine music ; many beauties of the first rank 
will be there ; and, besides, there is a foreign 
singer, who takes the principal character, and 
who has set the whole of Naples in fire and 
flame. She has a voice, an expression, a car- 
riage, such as we have no idea of ; and then 
she is beautiful, very beautiful, they say. You 
must take a pencil with you, for, if she answer 
only half the description I have heard of her, 
she will inspire you to write her the most beau- 
tiful sonnet ! I have kept the last bouquet of 
violets from the carnival to offer her, in case 
she should enchant me !” 

I was willing to accompany him — I wished 
to drink up every drop of the merry carnival. 
It was an important evening for us both. In 
my Diario Romano , also, this 3d of February 
stands doubly underlined. Bernardo had rea- 
sons that it should be so in his. 

It was in the Theatre Aliberto, the first op- 
era-house in Rome, that we were to see the 
new singer as Dido. The magnificent ceiling, 
with the hovering Muses ; the curtain, on 
which is portrayed the whole of Olympus, and 
the golden arabesques in the boxes, were then 
all new. The entire house, from the floor to 
the fifth row, was filled ; in every box burned 
lights in the lamps, the whole blazed like a sea 
of light. Bernardo directed my eyes to every 
new beauty who entered her box, and said a 
thousand wicked things about the plain ones. 

The overture began. It was the exposition- 
scene of the piece in music. The wild tem- 
pest raged on the sea and drove iEneas on the 
coast of Libya. The horror of the storm died 
away in pious hymns, which ascended in tri- 
umph, and in the soft tones of the flute a dream- 
like feeling stole over me of Dido’s awakening 
love, — a feeling which I myself had not known 
till then. The Hunting-horns sounded, the 
storm arose again, and I entered with the lov- 
ers into the secret grotto, where all intoned of 
love, the strong, tumultuous passion, which 
burst into a deep dissonance ; and with this the 
curtain rose. * 

iEneas is about to go, to conquer the Hespe- 
rian kingdom for Ascanius, to leave Dido, who 
received him the stranger, who sacrificed for 
him her honour and her happiness. But as yet 
she knows it not, “but quickly wil the dream 

F 


vanish,” said he, “soon, when the hosts of 
Tcucer, like the black swarms of ants laden 
with booty, advance to the shore.” 

Now came forth Dido. As soon as she shewed 
herself upon the boards, a deep silence spread 
itself over the house ; her whole appearance— 
her queenly and yet easy, charming carriage 
seized upon all — me also ; and yet she was not 
such a one as I had imagined Dido to be. She 
stood there, a delicate, graceful creature, infi- 
nitely beautiful and intellectual, as only Ra- 
phael can represent woman. Black as ebony lay 
her hair upon the exquisite, arched forehead ; 
the dark eye was full of expression. A loud 
outbreak of applause was heard ; it was to 
Beauty, and Beauty alone, that the homage was 
given, for as yet she had sung not a note. I 
saw plainly a crimson pass over her brow ; she 
bowed to the admiring crowd, who now follow- 
ed with deep silence her beautiful accentuation 
of the recitative. 

“ Antonio,” said Bernardo half aloud to me, 
and seized my arm, “ it is she ! I must have 
lost my senses, or it is she — my flown bird ! 
Yes, yes, I cannot be wrong; the voice also is 
hers ; I remember it only too well !” 

“Who do you mean'?” I inquired. 

“ The Jewish maiden from Ghetto,” replied 
he ; “ and yet it seems impossible, she cannot 
really be the same !” 

He w r as silent, and lost himself in the con- 
templation of the wonderfully lovely, sylph-like 
being. She sang the happiness of her love ; it 
was a heart which breathed forth, in melody, 
the deep, pure emotion which, upon the wings 
of melodious sounds, escapes from the human 
breast. A strange sadness seized upon my 
soul ; it was as if those tones would call up in 
me the deepest earthly remembrances ; I* also 
was about to exclaim, with Bernardo, It is she ! 
yes, she whom I for these many years had not 
thought or dreamed of stood now with wonder- 
ful vividness before me — she with w r hom I, as 
a child, had preached at Christmas, in the church 
ara cxli ; that singularly delicate little girl, with 
the remarkably sw r eet voice, who had won the 
prize from me. I thought of her, and the more 
I saw and heard this evening the more firmly 
was it impressed on my mind, “ it is she — she, 
and no other !” 

When, afterwards, JEneas announces to her 
that he will go — that they are not married — that 
he know’s not of their nuptial torch, how as- 
toundingly did she express all that which pass- 
ed in her soul — astonishment, pain, rage ; and, 
when she sang her great aria, it was as if the 
waves of the deep had struck against the clouds. 
How, indeed, shall I describe the world of mel- 
ody which she revealed 1 My thoughts sought 
for an outw r ard image for these tones, which 
seemed not to ascend from a human breast, and 
I saw a swan breathing out its life in song, 
whilst it now cut, with outspread pinions, the 
wide ethereal space, now descended into the 
deep sea, and clave the billows only again to 
ascend. A universal burst of acclamation re- 
sounded thiough the house. “Annunciata! 
Annunciata !” cried they ; and she was obliged 
again, and yet again, to present herself to the 
enraptured crowd. 

And yet this aria was not at all equal to the 
duet in the second act, in which she prays iEne- 


4‘2 


THE IMPR0V13AT0RE. 


as not immediately to' go, not thus to forsake 
her — her who for his sake had disgraced the 
race of Libya, the princes of Africa,, her virgin- 
ity and duty. “ I sent no- ships against Troy ; 

[ disturbed not the manes of Anchises and his 
ashes !” There was a truth, a pain in the whole 
of her expression, which filled my eyes with 
tears ; and the deep silence which reigned 
around shewed that every heart felt the same. 

JEneas left her, and now she stood for a mo- 
ment cold and pale as marble, like a Niobe. 
But quickly boiled the blood in her veins ; it 
was no longer Dido — the warm, the loving Dido 

the forsaken wife — it was a Fury. The beau- 
tiful features breathed forth poison and death. 
Annunciata knew so completely how to change 
her whole expression, to call up the icy shud- 
der of horror, that one was compelled to breathe 
and to suffer with her. 

Leonardo da Vinci has painted a Medusa’s 
head, which is in the gallery at Florence. Ev- 
ery one who sees it is strangely captivated by 
it, and cannot tear themselves away. It is as 
if the deep, out of froth and poison, had formed 
the most beautiful shape — as if the foam of the 
abyss had fashioned a Medician Venus. The 
look, the expression of the mouth even, breathe 
forth death. Thus stood Dido now before us. 

We saw the funereal pile which her sister 
Anna had erected ; the court was hung with 
black garlands and night-shade ; in the far dis- 
tance sped the barque of Habeas over the agita- 
ted sea. Dido stood with the weapons which 
he had forgotten ; her song sounded deep and 
heavy, and then again ascended into power and 
strength, like the lamentation of the fallen an- 
gels. The funereal pile was lighted ; her heart 
broke in melody. 

Like a tempest burst forth the applause : the 
curtain fell. We were all out of ourselves with 
admiration of the glorious actress, her beauty, 
and her indescribably exquisite voice. 

“Annunciata! Annunciata!” rang, from the 
pit and all the boxes ; the curtain rose, and' she 
stood there, bashful and charming, with eyes 
full of love and gentleness. Flowers rained 
down around her; ladies waved their white 
pocket-handkerchiefs, and the gentlemen, en- 
raptured, repeated her name. The curtain fell, 
but the acclamation seemed only the more to 
increase ; she again made her appearance, and 
with her the singer who had performed the part 
of iEneas ; but again and again they shouted, 
“ Annunciata !” She appeared with the whole 
corps who had contributed to her triumph ; but 
yet once more they stormed forth her name ; 
and for the fourth time she now came forth, 
quite alone, and thanked them, in a few cordial 
words, for the rich encouragement which they 
had given to her efforts. I had written a few 
lines in my excitement on a piece of paper, and 
these, amid flowers and garlands, flew to her 
feet. 

The curtain did not rise again ; but still again 
and again resounded her name ; people could 
not weary of seeing her, could not weary of 
paying her homage. Yet once more was she 
obliged to come forth from the side of the cur- 
tain, pass along before the lamps, and send 
kisses and thanks to the exultant crowd. De- 
light beamed from her eyes ; there was an in- 
describable joy in her whole look ; it was cer- 


tainly the happiest moment of her whole lile. 
And was it not also the happiest of mine ! I 
shared in her delight as well as in the accla 
mation of the others ; my eye, my whole soul 
imbibed her sweet image ; I saw only, thought 
only, Annunciata. 

The crowd left the theatre ; I was carried 
away with the stream which bore onward to 
the corner where the carriage of the singer 
stood ; I was pushed to the wall, for all wished 
yet once more to see her. All took off their 
Ifets and shouted her name. I spoke her name 
also, but my heart swelled strangely the while. 
Bernardo had pressed forward to the carriage, 
and opened the door for her. I saw that in a 
moment the horses would be taken out, and 
that the enthusiastic young men would them- 
selves draw her home. She spoke, and be- 
sought of them, with a trembling voice, not to 
do so ; but only her name in the most exultant 
shout sounded through the street. Bernardo 
mounted on the step, as the carriage was set 
in motion, in order to compose her, and I seized 
hold of the pole, and felt myself as happy as 
the rest. The whole thing was too soon over, 
like a beautiful dream. 

It was a happiness to me now to stand beside 
Bernardo ; he had actually talked with her — 
had been quite close to her ! 

“ Now what do you say, Antonio V ’ cried he ; 
“ is not your heart in a commotion ! If you do 
not glow through marrow and bone, you are not 
worthy to be called a man ! Don’t you now 
see how you stood in your own light when I 
wanted to take you to her ; and would it not 
have been worth while to have learned Hebrew, 
to have sat on the same bench with such a crea- 
ture! Yes, Antonio, however incomprehensi- 
ble it may seem, I have not any doubt but that 
she is my Jewish maiden ! She it was whom, 
a year ago, I saw with old Hanoch ; she it was 
who presented to me Cyprus wine, and then 
vanished. I have her again ; she is here, and 
like a glorious phoenix ascended from her nest, 
that hateful Ghetto !” 

“ It is impossible, Bernardo,” I replied ; “ she 
has also awoke remembrances in me, which 
make it impossible that she can be a Jewess ; 
most assuredly is she one of the only blessed 
church. Had you observed her as closely as I 
have done, you would have seen that hers is 
not a Jewish form ; that those features bear 
not the Cain’s mark of that unhappy, despised 
nation. Her speech itself, her accent, come 
not from Jewish lips. O Bernardo, I feel so 
happy, so inspired by the world of melody which 
she has infused into my soul ! But what did 
she say! You have actually talked with her, 
stood close by her carriage ; was she right hap- 
py, as happy as she has made us all 1” 

“You are regularly inspired, Antonio !” in- 
terrupted he ; “ now melts the ice of the Jesuit 
school ! What did she talk about! Yes, she 
was frighted, and yet she was proud that you 
wild cubs drew her through the streets. She 
held her veil tight over her face, and pressed 
herself irfto the corner of the carriage ; I com- 
posed her, and said every thing that my heart 
could have said to the Queen of Beauty and In- 
nocence ; but she would not even take my hand 
when I would have helped her out !” 

“ But how could you be so bold ! she did not 


43 


THE IMPROVISATOEE. 


know you. I should never have ventured on 
such audacity.” 

“Yes, you know nothing of the world — no- 
thing of women. She has observed me, and 
chat always is something.” 

I now read him my impromptu to her ; he 
thought it was divine, and declared that it must 
be printed in the Diario di Roma. We drank 
together her health. Every one in the cof- 
fee-house talked of .her; every one, like us, 
was inexhaustible in her praise. It was late 
when I parted from Bernardo ; I hastened 
home, but sleep was not to be thought of. It 
was to me a delight to go over the whole, opera 
in -my own mind ; Annunciata’s first appear- 
ance ; the aria, the duet, the closing scene, 
which seized so strangely on the souls of all. 
In my rapture I spoke forth my applause aloud, 
and called her name. Then in thought I went 
through my little poem, wrote it down, and 
thought it pretty ; read it a few times to my- 
self ; and, if I must be candid, my love to her 
was almost increased by the poem. Now, 
many years afterwards, I see it with very dif- 
ferent eyes. I then thought it a little master- 
piece. She certainly took it up, I thought, and 
now she sits half undressed upon the soft silk- 
en sofa, supports her cheek upon her beautiful 
arm, and reads that which I breathed upon pa- 
per : — 

My soul went with thee, trembling- and unshriven, 

On that proud track where only Dante stays ; 

In music, through the depths and up to heaven, 

Thy song has led me and thy seraph-gaze ! 

What Dante’s power from stony words hath wrung, 

Deep in my soul hast thou in music sung I 

I knew no spiritual world more rich and beau- 
tiful than that in Dante’s poem, but this now, it 
seemed to me, revealed itself in a higher vitali- 
ty, and with much greater clearness than be- 
fore. Her melting song, her look, the pain and 
the despair which she had represented, had 
most completely been given in the spirit of 
Dante. She must think my poem beautiful ! 
I imagined her thoughts, her desire to know 
the author, and I almost fancy that, before I 
went to sleep, I was, with all my imaginings 
about her, still most occupied with myself and 
my own little insignificant poem. 


CHAPTER XI. 

BERNARDO AS DEUS EX MACHINA LA PRUOYA D’UN 

OPERA SERIA MY FIRST IMPROVISATION THE 

LAST DAYS OF THE CARNIVAL. 

The next forenoon I saw nothing of Bernar- 
do ; in vain I sought for him. Many were the 
times that I went across the Piazza Colonna, 
not to contemplate the pillar of Antoninus, but 
to see, if it were only the sleeve of Annunciata, 
for she lived there. There were visitors with 
her, the lucky people ! I heard a piano ; I lis- 
tened, but no Annunciata sung : a deep bass 
voice gave forth some tones ; certainly it was 
the master of the musical chapel, or one of the 
singers in her company — what an enviable lot ! 
Were one only in the place of him who acted 
Aeneas with her ! thus to look into her eyes, 
drink in her looks of love, travel with her from 
city to city, gaining admiration and renown ! 
I was quite lost in the thought. Harlequins 


with shells, Pulchinellos and magicians danced 
around. I had quite forgotten that it was car- 
nival time, and that it even now was the hour 
when the sports began for to-day. 

The whole gaudy crowd, the noise and the 
screams, made an unpleasant impression upon 
me. Carriages drove past ; almost all the dri- 
vers were dressed as ladies, but it looked to me 
horrible ; those black whiskers under women’s 
caps ; the vigorous movements, all were paint- 
ed to me in frightful colours, nay, were detest- 
able, as it seemed to me. I did not feel my- 
self, like as yesterday, given up to mirth. 1 
was about to depart, and now, for the last time, 
cast a glance at the house in which Annuncia- 
ta lived, when Bernardo rushed from the door 
tow r ards me, and, laughing, exclaimed, — 

“ Come along, man, and don’t stand staring 
there ! I wall introduce you to Annunciata ; 
she expects you already. Look you, is not 
this a piece of friendship in me 1” 

“ She !” I stammered, the blood seeming to 
boil in my ears, “ she ! don’t make any sport 
of me ! Where will you take me 1” 

“ To her, of whom you have sung,” he re- 
plied — “ to her, about whom you and I and eve- 
ry body are raving — to the divine Annunciata !” 

And so saying, he drew me into the door with 
him. 

“ But explain to me how you got here your- 
self — how you can introduce me here.” 

“ Presently, presently, you shall know all 
that,” replied he ; “ now call up a cheerful face.” 

“ But my dress,” I stammered, and tried hast- 
ily to arrange it. 

“ Oh, you are handsome, my friend ! perfect- 
ly charming ! See now, then, we are at the 
door.” 

It opened, and I stood before Annunciata. 
She w r ore a black silk dress of the richest ma- 
terial, which fell in ample folds around her, 
wfiiilst its simple, unadorned style shewed the 
exquisite bust and the sweep of the delicate 
shoulders to the greatest advantage ; the black 
hair was put back from the noble, lofty fore- 
head, upon which was placed a black ornament, 
which seemed to me to be an antique stone. 
At some distance from her, and towards the 
window, sat an old woman in a dark brown, 
somewhat worn dress, whose eyes, and the 
whole form of whose countenance, said, at the 
first glance, that she was a Jewess. I thought 
upon Bernard’s assertion that Annunciata and 
the beauty of Ghetto were the same person ; 
but this was impossible, said I again in my 
heart, when I looked at Annunciata. A gen- 
tleman also whom I did not know was in the 
room ; he rose, and she rose also, and came 
towards me, half smiling, as Bernardo led me 
in, and said, jestingly, — 

“ My gracious signora, I have here the hon- 
our to present the poet, my friend, the excel- 
lent Abbe Antonio, a favourite of the Borghese 
family.” 

“ Signora will forgive,” said she ; “ but it is 
in truth no fault of mine that my acquaintance 
is thrust upon you, however desirable yours 
may be to me ! You have honoured me with a 
poem,” she continued, and crimsomed ; “ your 
friend mentioned you as the author, begged to 
introduce you to me, when suddenly he saw 
you in the street, and said, ‘Now you shall see 


44 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


him instantly,’ and was gone before I could re- 
ply or prevent — that is his way ; but you know 
your friend better than I do-.” 

Bernardo knew how to make a joke of it, and 
i stammered out a few words about my good 
fortune, my joy at being introduced to her. 

My cheeks glowed ; she extended her hands 
to me, and in my rapture I pressed them to my 
lips. She introduced the stranger gentleman 
to me ; it was the chapel-master, or company’s 
leader of the band. The old lady, whom she 
sailed he 1 ' foster-mother, looked gravely, almost 
sternly at Bernardo and me, but I soon forgot 
that in Ahnunciata’s friendship and gay hu- 
mour. 

The chapel-master expressed himself as 
obliged by my poem, and, offering me his hand, 
invited me to write opera-text for him, and to 
begin at once. 

“ Do not listen to him,” interrupted Annun- 
ciata ; “you do not know into what misery he 
will plunge you. Composers think nothing of 
their victims, and the public still less. You 
will this evening, in La Pruova Pan Opera Se- 
da, see a good picture of a poor author ; and 
yet this is not painted sufficiently strongly.” 

The composer wished to make some excep- 
tion ; Annunciata smiled, and turned herself to 
me. 

“ You write a piece,” she said ; ‘-‘ infuse your 
whole soul into its exquisite verse. Unities, 
characters, all have been well considered : but 
now comes the composer ; he has an idea that 
must be brought in ; yours must be put aside : 
here he will have fifes and drums, and you must 
dance after them. The prima donna says that 
she will not sing unless you bring in an aria 
for a brilliant exit. She understands the furiose 
maestoso, and whether it succeed or not the 
author must answer for. The prima tenor 
makes the same demands. You must fly from 
the prima to the tertia donna, to the bass and 
tenor, must bow, flatter, endure all that our hu- 
mours can inflict ; and that is not a little.” 

The chapel-master wished to interrupt her ; 
but Annunciata noticed- it not, and continued : 

“ Then comes the director, weighing, meas- 
uring, throwing away ; and you must be his 
most humble servant, even in folly and stupid- 
ity. The mechanist assures you that the 
strength of the theatre will not bear this ar- 
rangement, this decoration ; that they cannot 
have it new painted : thus you must alter this 
and that in the piece, which is called, in the- 
atrical language, ‘to mend.’ The theatrical 
painter does not permit that this sea-piece 
should be brought out in his new decoration : 
this, like the rest, must also be mended. Then 
the signora cannot make a roulade on the syl- 
lable with which one of the verses ends : she 
will have one that ends with an a, l(ft it come 
from where it may. You must mend yourself, 
and mend your text ; and if so be that the 
whole, like, a new creation, comes on the stage, 
you may have the pleasure of having it hissed, 
and the composer exclaim, ‘Ah, it is that 
miserable text which has ruined the whole ! 
The pinions of my melody could not sustain 
the colossus : it must fall !’ ” 

Merrily came up the sound of music to us 
from below. The carnival maskers came buzz- 
ing over the square, and through the streets. 


A loud acclamation mingled itself with the 
clapping of hands, and called us all to the open 
window. To be now so near to Annunciata* 
to see my heart’s wish so suddenly fulfilled, 
made me unspeakably happy ; and the carnival 
seemed to me as merry as it did yesterday, 
when I played my part in it. 

About fifty pulchinellos had assembled under 
the window, and had chosen their king, who 
mounted a little car, hung over with gaudy 
flags, and garlands of laurels and orange-peel, 
which waved about as if they had been ribands 
and lace. The king ascended into the car. 
They set upon his head a Grown made of gilded 
and brightly painted eggs, and gave to him, 
as a sceptre, a gigantic child’s rattle, covered 
with macaroons. All danced around him, and 
he nodded graciously on all sides ; then they 
harnessed themselves to his carriage, to drag 
him through the streets. At th^t moment his 
eye fell on Annunciata ; he recognised her, 
nodded familiarly to her, and said, as he was. 
drawn along, “ Yesterday, thee ! to-day, me ! 
Pure Roman blood before the chariot !” 

I saw Annunciata become crimson and step 
back ; but in a moment, recovering herself, 
she bent forward over the balcony, and said to 
him aloud, “ Enjoy thy good fortune ! Thou 
art unworthy of it, like me !” 

They had seen her, heard her words, and 
her reply. A “vivat !” resounded through the 
air, and bouquets of flowers flew up around 
her. One of them struck her shoulder, and 
flew into my bosom. I pressed it close : it 
was to me a treasure which I would not have 
lost. 

Bernardo was indignant at what he called 
the pulchinellos’ audacity, and wished to go . 
down immediately and chastise the fellows ; 
but the chapel-master, as well as the rest, pre- 
vented him, and treated the whole as a jest. 

The servant announced the first tenor-sing- 
er ; he brought with him an abbe and a foreign 
artist, who desired to be introduced to Annun- 
ciata. The next moment came fresh visitors, 
foreign artists, who introduced themselves, and 
brought her their homage. We were altogether 
a large party. They spoke of the merry Fes- 
tino the last evening, at the Theatre Argentina ; 
of the various artist masks that represented 
the celebrated statues Apollo Musagetes, the 
Gladiators, and the Discus-throwers. The only 
one who took no part in the conversation was 
the old lady whom I took for a Jewess : she 
sat silent, busied over her stocking, and nodded 
very slightly when Annunciata several times 
during the conversation turned to her. 

Yet how different was Annunciata from the 
being which my soul had imagined he), as I 
saw and heard he* the evening before. In her 
person she seemed to be a life-enjoying, almost 
wilful being ; and yet this suited her indescri- 
bably well, and attracted me wonderfully. She 
knew how to fascinate me and every one with 
her easy, sportive remarks, and the sensible, 
witty manner in which she expressed herself. 

Suddenly she looked at her watch, sprang up 
hastily, and excused herself, saying that her 
toilet awaited her ; that she was that evening 
to appear in La Pruova Pun Opera Scria. With 
a friendly nod of the head, she vanished into a 
side-room. 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


45 . 


“ How happy you ha/e made me, Bernardo !” 
I exclaimed aloud to him, when we were 
scarcely out of the house-door. “ How lovely 
she is, lovely as in song and acting ! But how, 
in all the world, did you get admitted to her 1 
— how so suddenly make her acquaintance l I 
cannot understand it : it all seems to me a 
dream, even that I myself have been near to 
her !” 

“ How did I get admitted 1” replied he ; 
“ Oh ! quite simply ! I considered it my duty 
as one of the young nobility of Rome, and as 
one of his holiness’s guard of honour, and as 
an admirer of all beauty, to go and pay my 
respects. Love did not require one-half of 
these reasons. It was thus that I introduced 
myself ; and that I could introduce myself 
equally well as those whom you yourself saw 
arrive without announcer or keeper needs no 
doubt whatever. When I am in love, I am al- 
ways interesting ; and thus you can very well 
see that I should be very amusing. We all 
had become, after the first half hour, so well 
acquainted with each other, that I could very 
well bring you in, as soon as I saw you.” 

“You love her 1” I inquired, “ love her, 
right honestly 1” 

“ Yes, more than ever !” exclaimed he ; 
“ and what I told you, of her being the girl 
who gave me wine at the old Jew’s, I have 
now no doubt about. She recognised me, 
when I stepped before her — I saw that plain- 
ly ; even the old Jew mother, who did not say 
a word, but only sat and beat time with her 
head, and lost her knitting-needle, is to me a 
Solomon’s seal to the truth of my conjecture. 
Yet Annunciata is not a Jewess. It was her 
dark hair — her dark eyes — the circumstances 
and the place "where I saw her first, which mis- 
led me. Your own picture is more correct : 
she is of our faith, and shall enter into our 
Paradise.” ^ ' 

In the evening, we were to meet at the the- 
atre. The crowd was great. In vain I looked 
for Bernardo ; he was not to be seen. I found 
one place : all around me was thronged ; the 
heat was heavy and oppressive. My blood was 
already beforehand in a strange, feverish agi- 
tation ; I seemed half to have dreamed the last 
two days’ adventures. No piece could be less 
calculated to give an equilibrium to my agitated 
mind than that which had now begun. 

The farce La Ppuova dCan Opera Seria is, as 
is well known, the fruit of the most wanton, 
fantastical humour, scarcely any connecting 
thread goes through the whole. Poet and 
composer have had no other intention than to 
excite laughter, and to give the singers oppor- 
tunity of shining. There is here a passionate, 
whimsical prima donna, and a composer who 
plays in the same spirit together with caprice 
on caprice of the other theatrical people, that 
strange race, which must be managed in their 
own way, probably as poison, which can both 
kill and cure. The poor poet skips about 
among them, like a lightly esteemed victim. 

Shouts and garlands of flowers greeted An- 
nunciata. The humour, the liveliness which 
she shewed, was called the highest art. I 
called it nature. It was exactly thus that she 
had been at home ; and now, when she sung, 

was as if a thousand silver bells were rin^- 

C3 


ing the changes of a delicious harmony, which 
infused that gladness into every heart which 
beamed from her eyes. 

The duet between her and il compositor e della 
musica, in which they change parts, she sing- 
ing that of the man, and he that of the lady, 
was a triumph to them both as performers • 
but in particular was every one captivated by 
her transitions from the deepest counter-tenor 
to the highest soprano. In her light, graceful 
dancing she resembled Terpsichore upon the 
Etruscan vase ; every motion might have been 
a study for a painter or a sculptor. The whole 
graceful animation seemed to me a develope- 
ment of her own individuality, with which I 
had to-day become acquainted. The persona- 
tion of Dido was to me artistic study : hei 
“ prima donna” this evening was a realisation 
of the most complete actuality. 

Without having particular relation to the 
piece, there are great bravura-arias introduced 
into it from other operas. By the archness 
with which she sang these, all was evidently 
natural : it was wilfulness and love of fun that 
excited her to these magnificent representa- 
tions. 

At the close of the piece, the composer de- 
clares that every thing was excellent, and that 
now the overture may begin ; hq> therefore dis- 
tributes the music to the actual orchestra. The 
prima donna assists him ; the sign is given, 
and both of them join in with the most horri- 
ble ear and heart-rending dissonances, clapping 
their hands, and shouting, “ Bravo ! bravo !” 
in which the public join them. Laughter al- 
most overpowers the music ; but I was capti- 
vated to my very soul, and felt myself half 
faint with exultation. 

Annunciata was a wild, wilful child, but most 
loveable in her wilfulness. Her song burst 
forth like the wild dithyrambics.of the bacchan- 
tes ; even in gaiety I could not follow her : her 
wilfulness was spiritual, beautiful, and great, 
and, as I looked at her, I could not but think 
on Guido Reni’s glorious ceiling-painting of 
Aurora, where the Hours dance before the 
chariot of the Sun. One of these has a won- 
derful resemblance to the portrait of Beatrice 
Cinci, but as one must see in the gayest time 
of her life. This expression I found again in 
Annunciata. Had I been a sculptor, I should 
have designed her in marble, and the world 
would have called the -statue Innocent Joy. 

Higher and yet higher, in wild dissonances, 
stormed the orchestra ; the composer and pri- 
ma donna accompanied them. “ Glorious !” 
they now exclaimed, “ the overture is at an 
end ; let the curtain rise !” And so it falls, 
and the farce was ended ; but, as on the pre- 
ceding night, Annunciata must again come 
forth, and garlands, and flowers, and poems, 
with fluttering ribands, flew towards her. 

Several young men of my age, some of whom 
I knew, had arranged that night to give her a 
serenade ; I was to be one of them. It was 
an age since I had sung. 

An hour after the play, when she had arrived 
at home, our little band advanced to the Piazza 
Colonna. The musicians were stationed undei 
the balcony, where we still saw light behind 
the long curtains. My whole soul was in agi- 
tation. I thought only on her. My song min- 


46 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


gled itself fearlessly with the others ; I sung 
also a solo-aria. I felt all that which I breathed 
forth. Every thing in the world passed away 
from me. My voice had a power,, a softness 
which I had never imagined before. My com- 
panions could not restrain a faint bravo, but 
yet sufficient to make me attentive to my own 
song. A wondrous joy stole into my soul ; I 
felt the god which moved within me, and, 
when Annunciata showed herself upon the 
balcony, bowed deeply, and thanked us, — it 
seemed to me that it was alone with reference 
to me. I heard my voice distinctly above that 
of the others, and it seemed like the soul of 
the great harmony. I returned home in a 
whirl of enthusiasm ; my vain mind dreamed 
only of Annunciata’s delight in my singing. I 
had indeed astonished myself. 

The next day I paid her a visit, and found 
Bernardo and several acquaintances with her. 
She was in raptures with the delicious tenor 
voice which she had heard in the serenade. I 
crimsoned deeply. One of the persons present 
suggested that I might be the singer ; on which 
she drew me to the piano, and desired that I 
would sing a duet with her. I stood there like 
one about to be condemned, and assured them 
that it was impossible to me. They besought 
me, and Bernardo scolded because I thus de- 
prived them of the pleasure of hearing the 
signora. She took me by the hand, and I was 
a captive bird ; it mattered but little that I 
fluttered my wings, I must sing. The duet 
was one with which I was acquainted. An- 
nunciata struck up and raised her voice. With 
a tremulous tone I began my adagio. Her eye 
rested upon me as if she would say, “ Courage ! 
courage ! follow me into my world of melody !” 
and I thought and dreamed only on this and 
Annunciata. My fear vanished, and I boldly 
ended the song. A storm of applause saluted 
us both, and even the old silent woman nodded 
to me kindly. 

“ My good fellow,” whispered Bernardo to 
me, “ you have amazed me !” and then he told 
them all that I possessed yet another gift equal- 
ly glorious — I was an Improvisatore also, and 
that I must delight them by giving them a proof 
of it. My whole soul was in excitement. Flat- 
tered on account of my singing, and tolerably 
secure of my own power, there needed only 
that Annunciata should express the wish for 
me, for the first time, as a youth, to have bold- 
ness enough to improvise. 

I seized her guitar ; she gave me the word 
“ Immortality.” I rapidly thought over the 
rich subject, struck a few chords, and then be- 
gan my poem as it was born in my soul. My 
genius led me over the sulphur-blue Mediter- 
ranean to the wildly fertile valleys of Qreece. 
Athens lay in ruins ; the wild fig-tree grew 
above the broken capitals, and the spirit heav- 
ed a sigh ; then onwards to the days of Peri- 
cles, when a rejoicing crowd was in motion 
under the proud arches. It was the festival 
of beauty ; women, enchanting as Lais, danced 
with garlands through the streets, and poets 
sang aloud that beauty and joy should never 
pass away. But now every noble daughter of 
beauty is dust, mingled with dust, the forms 
forgotten which had enchanted a happy gen- 
eration : and whilst my genius wept over the 


ruins of Athens, there arose before me from 
the earth glorious images, created by the hand 
of the sculptor, mighty goddesses slumbering 
in marble raiment ; and my genius recognised 
the daughters of Athens, beautifully exalted to 
divinity, which the white marble preserves for 
future generations. “ Immortality,” sang my 
genius, “ is beauty, but not earthly power and 
strength,” and wafting itself across the sea to 
Italy, to the city of the world, it gazed silently 
from the remains of the Capitol over ancient 
Rome. The Tib whirled along its yellow 
waters, and wh«v. ^ Coratius Codes once com- 
bated, boats now ^ass along, laden with wood 
and oil, for Ostia. Where Curtius sprang from 
the forum into the flaming gulf, the cattle now 
lie down in the tall grass. Augustus and Ti- 
tus ! proud names, which now the ruined tem- 
ple and arch alone commemorate ! Rome’s 
eagle, the mighty bird of Jupiter, is dead in its 
nest. Rome, where is thy immortality 1 There 
flashed the eye of the eagle. Excommunica- 
tion goes forth over ascending Europe. The 
overturned throne of Rome w r as the chair of 
St. Peter ; and kings came as barefoot pilgrims 
to the holy city — Rome, mistress of the world ! 
But in the flight of centuries was heard the 
toll of death — death to all that the hand can 
seize upon, that the human eye can discern ! 
But can the sword of St. Peter really rustl 
The eagle flies forth from the east to the west. 
Can the power of the Church decline'? Can 
the impossible happen 1 Rome still stands 
proudly in her ruins with the gods of antiquity 
and her holy pictures which rule the world by 
eternal art. To thy mount, 0 Rome ! will the 
sons of Europe come as pilgrims for ever ; 
from thl^ east and from the west, from the cold 
north will they come hither, and in their hearts 
acknowledge — “ Rome, thy power is immor- 
tal!” • 

The most vehement applause saluted me as 
I concluded this stanza. Annunciata alone 
moved not a hand, but, silent and beautiful as 
an image of Venus, she looked into my eyes 
with a confiding glance, the silent language of 
a full heart, and again words flowed from my 
lips in easy verses, the offspring of the mo- 
ment’s inspiration. 

From the great theatre of the world, I went 
to a more confined scene, and described the 
fair artiste , who, with her acting and her sing- 
ing, attracted to her all hearts. Annunciata 
cast down her eyes — for it was she of whom I 
thought — she, who could not but be recognised 
in the description which I gave. “ And,” con- 
tinued I, “ when the last tone has died away, 
the curtain fallen, and even the roar of ap- 
plause is over, then also her. beautiful labour is 
dead, and, as a beautiful corpse, lies in the bo- 
som of the spectators. But a poet’s heart is 
lik6 the grave of the Madonna ; all becomes 
flowers and odour , the dead ascend from it 
more beautiful, and his mighty song intones for 
her — ‘ Immortality !’ ” 

My eye rested on Annunciata ; my thougnts 
had found words ; I bowed low, and all sur- 
rounded me with thanks and flattering words. 

“ You have given me the sincerest pleas- 
ure,” said Annunciata, hnd looked confidingly 
into my eyes. I ventured to kiss her hand. 

My poetic power had excited in her a higher 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


47 


interest for me. She discovered already that 
‘which I myself perceived only afterwards, that 
my love for her had misled me in placing her 
art, and she who exercised it, within the range 
of immortality, which it could never reach. 
Dramatic art is like a rainbow, a heavenly 
splendour, a bridge between heaven and earth ; 
it is admired, and then vanishes with all its 
colours. 

I visited her daily. The few carnival-days 
were over, flown like a dream ; but I enjoyed 
them thoroughly, for with Annunciata I drank 
in large draughts of life-enjoyment, such as I 
never had known before. 

“ You are really beginning to be a man !” 
said Bernardo, “ a man like the rest of us, and 
yet you have only sipped of the cup. I dare 
swear now that you never gave a girl a kiss, 
never rested your head on her shoulder ! Sup- 
pose now that Annunciata loved youl” 

“ What are you thinking ofl” I replied, half 
angry ; and the blood burned in my cheeks. 
“ Annunciata, that gltfrious woman that stands 
so high above me !” 

“ Yes, my friend ; high or low, she is a 
woman, and you are a poet, of whose mutual 
relationship no one can form a judgment. If 
the poet have the first place in a heart, he is 
possessed also of the key which can lock the 
beloved in.” 

“ It is admiration for her which fills my soul ; 
I worship her loveliness, her understanding, 
and the art of which she is a votary. Love 
her 1 the thought has never entered my mind.” 

“ How grave and solemn !” interrupted Ber- 
nardo, laughing. “You are not in love! no, 
that is true, indeed. You are one of those in- 
tellectual amphibious creatures that one can- 
not tell whether they rightly belong to the liv- 
ing or the dream- wrn rid ; you are not in love, 
not at least in the same way as I am, not in 
the same way as every body else ; you say so 
yourself, and I will credit you ; but still, you 
may be so in your own particular way. You 
should not let your blood mount to your cheeks 
when she speaks to you, should not cast those 
significant fiery glances at her. I counsel you 
thus for her sake. What do you think others 
must think of it 1 But, in the meantime, she 
goes away the day after to-morrow, and who 
knows whether she may come back again after 
Easter, as she has promised.” 

For five long weeks Annunciata was about 
to leave us. She was engaged for the theatre 
at Florence, and the journey was fixed for the 
first day in Lent. 

“Then she will have a new troop of ado- 
rers !” said Bernardo. “ The old ones will be 
soon forgotten ; yes, even your beautiful im- 
provisation, for the sake of which she casts 
such loving looks at you, that one is regu- 
larly shocked. But he is a fool who thinks 
only of one woman ! They are all ours ! the 
field is full of flowers ; one can gather every 
where.” 

In the evening we were together at the the- 
atre ; it was the last time of Annunciata’s ap- 
pearance before her journey. We saw her 
again as Dido, and in acting and singing she 
stood as high as at the first time ; higher she 
could not be, it was the perfection of art. She 
was again to me the pure ideal which I had 


that evening conceived. The gay humour, the 
playful petulance, which she had shown in 
the farcical opera, and even in life, seemed to 
me a gaudy world-dress which she put on ; it 
became her very well ; but in Dido she exhib- 
ited her whole soul, her peculiar and spiritual 
identity. Rapture and applause saluted her ; 
greater it could hardly have been when the 
enthusiastic Roman people greeted Caesar and 
Titus. 

With the honest thanks of an agitated heart 
she spoke her farewell to us all, and promised 
soon to return. “ Bravo !” resounded from 
the overflowing house. Again and again they 
demanded to see her ; and, in triumph, as at 
the first time, they drew her carriage through 
the streets ; I w T as among the first of them l 
Bernardo shouted as enthusiastically as I, 
as we took hold on the carriage, in which 
Annunciata smiled, happy as a noble heart 
could be. 

The next day w r as the last of the carnival, 
and the last which Annunciata had now to 
spend in Rome. I went to pay my farewell 
visit. She was very much affected at the 
homage which had been paid to her talent^ 
and delighted herself in the thought of return- 
ing here after Easter, although Florence, with 
its beautiful country, and its glorious picture- 
gallery, was to her a beloved place of abode. 
In a few words she gave me so vivid a picture 
of the city and its neighbourhood, that I dis- 
tinctly saw the whole ; the wrnoded Apennines 
scattered over with villas ; the Piazza del gran 
Duca, and all the old magnificent palaces. 

“ I shall see again the glorious gallery,” said 
she, “w r here my love for sculpture was first 
excited, and wdiere I perceived first the great- 
ness of the human soul, which was able, like 
a Prometheus, to breathe life into the dead ! 
Would that I at this moment could lead you 
into one of the rooms, the least of them all, 
but to me the dearest, the very "remembrance 
of which makes me happy. In that little octa- 
gon room hang only select masterpieces ; but 
all fade before one living marble figure, the 
Medicean Venus ! Never did I see such a liv- 
ing expression in stone. The marble eye, oth- 
erwise without the pow r er of sight, lives here ! 
The artist has so formed it that by the help of 
light it seems to see, to look into our veiy 
souls ; it is the goddess herself, born of the 
ocean-foam, that stands before us. Upon the 
wall behind the statue hang tw r o magnificent 
pictures of Venus, by Titian ; they are, in life 
and colouring, the goddess of beauty, but only 
earthly beauty — rich, luxurious beauty ; the 
marble goddess is heavenly! — Raphael’s For- 
narina, and the superhuman Madonnas, excite 
my mind and my heart ; but I always turn oack 
again to the Venus ; it stands before me, not 
like an image, but full of light and life, looking 
into my soul with her marble eyes ! I know 
no statue, no group, which speaks to me thus ; 
no, not even the Laocoon, although the marble 
seems to sigh with pain. The Apollo of the 
Vatican, which you certainly know, alone seems 
to me a worthy companion piece. The pow'er 
and intellectual greatness which the sculptor 
has given to the poet-god is exhibited with more 
feminine nobility in the goddess of beauty.” 

“ I know the glorious statue in plaster of 


4R 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


Paris,” replied I ; “ I have seen good copies in 
paste.” 

“ But nothing can be more imperfect,” she 
said ; “ the dead plaster gives a dead expres- 
sion. The marble gives life and soul ; in it the 
stone becomes flesh ; it is as if the blood flowed 
beneath the flne skin. I would that you were 
going with me to Florence, that you might ad- 
mire and worship. I would be your guide there, 
as you shall be mine in Rome, if I come back 
again.” 

I bowed low, and felt happy and flattered By 
her wish. 

“ We shall see you next after Easter 1” 

“Yes, at the illumination of St. Peter's and 
the girondola,” replied she. “ In the mean 
time think kindly on me, as I, in the gallery at 
Florence, will often remember you, and wish 
that you were there, and looking at that treas- 
ure ! That is always the wmy with me when- 
ever I see any thing beautiful — I long for my 
friends, and wish that they were with me to 
participate in my pleasure. That is my kind 
of home-sickness.” 

She extended to me her hand, which I kissed, 
and ventured to say, half in jest, “ Will you 
convey my kiss to the Medicean Venus 1” 

“ Then it does not belong to me?” said An- 
nunciata. “ Well, I will honestly take care of 
it ;” and with this she nodded to me most 
kindly, and thanked me for the happy hours 
which I had caused her with my singing and 
my improvisation. 

“ We shall see one another again,” said she ; 
and, like a dreamer, I left the room. 

Outside the door I met the old lady, who 
saluted me more kindly than common ; and in 
my excited state of mind I kissed her hand. 
She slapped mq, gently on the shoulder, and I 
heard her say, “ He is a good creature !” I 
was now in the street, happy in the friendship 
of Annunciata, and enraptured with her mind 
and her beauty. 

I felt myself in the right humour to enjoy 
this last day of the carnival. I could not ima- 
gine to myself that Annunciata was about to 
leave Rome, our leave-taking had seemed so 
easy ; I could not but think that our meeting 
again must be on the morrow r . All unmasked as 
I was, I took the liveliest part in the combat of 
comfits. Every chair through the whole length 
of the streets was occupied ; every balcony 
and window was full of people ; carriages 
drove up and down, and the gay throng of 
human beings, like a billowy stream, moved 
among them. In order to breathe a little more 
freely, I was obliged to spring boldly before 
one of the carriages, the little room between 
them being the only space in which one could 
in any measure freely move oneself. Music 
sounded, merry masks were singing, and be- 
hind one of the carriages II Capitano was 
trumpeting forth his proud deeds on land and 
water. Wanton boys, on wooden horses, 
whose hands and hind parts were only properly 
visible, whilst the rest was covered with a 
bright carpet, which concealed the two legs of 
the rider, which personated the four legs of the 
horse, thrust themselves into the narrow space 
between the carriages, and thus increased the 
confusion. I could neither get forward nor 
backward from the spot : the foam of the hor- 


ses behind me flew about my ears. In this 
press I sprang up behind one of the carriages, 
in which sat two masks, who were, as it seem- 
ed, a fat old gentleman in dressing-gown and 
night-cap, and a pretty flower-girl. She ha i 
instantly seen that it was not out of lawless- 
ness, but rather from fear, and therefore sh s 
patted me with her hand, and offered me two 
comfits for refreshment. The old gentleman, 
on the contrary, threw a whole basketful into 
my face, and, as the space behind me was now 
somewhat more- free, the flower-girl did the 
same ; so that I, not having any weapons of 
the same kind, quite powdered over from top 
to toe, was compelled to make a hasty retreat. 
Two harlequins brushed me merrily with their 
maces ; but when the carriage again in its 
turn passed me, the same tempest began anew. 
I therefore determined to defend myself, in re- 
turn, with comfits ; but the cannon was fired, 
the carriages were forced into the narrow side- 
streets, to give place to the horse-racing, and 
my two masks disappeared from my sight. 

They seemed to know me. Who could they 
be? I had not seen Bernardo in the Corso 
through the whole day. A thought occurred 
that the old gentleman in the dressing-gown 
and night-cap might be he, and the pretty 
shepherdess his so-called “tame bird.” Very 
gladly would I have seen her face. I had ta- 
ken my place on a chair close to the corner, 
the cannon-shot was soon heard, and the hor- 
ses rushed through the Corso up towards the 
Venetian Square. The human mass imme- 
diately filled the street again behind them, and 
I was just about to dismount, when a fearful 
cry resounded, “ Cavallo !” 

One of the horses, the first which reached the 
goal, had not been secured, and had now, in 
a moment, turned itself about, and was pur- 
suing its way back. When one thinks upon 
the thick crowd, and the security with which 
every one went forward after the race was at 
an end, one may easily imagine the misfortune 
that was likely to occur. The remembrance 
of my mother’s death passed through me like a 
flash of lightning ; it was as if I felt the fright- 
ful moment in which the wild horses went over 
us. My eyes stared immovably forward. The 
crowd fled to the' sides as if by a magical stroke 
— it seemed as if they had shrunk into them- 
selves. I saw the horse snorting, and with 
bleeding sides and wildly-flying mane, pass by ; 
I saw the sparks which flew from his hoofs, 
and at once, as if struck with a shot, drop dead 
to the earth. Anxiously enquired every one 
from his neighbour whether some misfortune 
had not happened. But the Madonna had held 
a protecting hand over her people ; nobody was 
hurt, and the danger so happily passed made 
the public mind still gayer, and much wilder 
than ever. 

A sign was made, which announced that all 
order in driving was now at an end, and the 
glorious moccolo, the splendid finale of the car- 
nival, had begun. The carriages now drove 
one amongst another ; the confusion and the 
tumult became still greater ; the darkness in- 
creased every minute, and every one lighted 
his little candle, some whole bundles of them. 
In every window lights were placed ; houses 
and carriages, in the quiet, glorious evening, 


4D 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


looked as if scattered over with these glim- 
mering stars. Paper-lanterns, and pyramids of 
light, swung upon tall poles across the street. 
Every one was endeavouring to protect his 
own light, and to extinguish his neighbour’s ; 
whilst the cry, “ Sia ammazato chi non porta 
moccolo /” sounded forth with increasing wild- 
ness. 

In vain I tried to defend mine ; it was blown 
out every moment. I threw it away, and com- 
pelled every body to do the same. The ladies 
by the sides of the houses stuck their light be- 
hind them through the cellar windows, and 
cried out to me, laughing, “ Scnza moccolo .” 
They fancied the^r own lights safe, but the 
children from within climbed up to the win- 
dows, and blew them out. Little paper bal- 
loons and lighted lamps came waving down 
from the upper window's, where people sat with 
hundreds of little burning lights, W'hich they 
held on long canes over the street, crying all 
the time, “ Let every one perish who does not 
carry a taper !” whilst fresh figures, in the 
meantime, clambered up the spouts with their 
pocket-handkerchiefs fastened on long sticks, 
with which to put out every light, holding up 
theirs aloft the while, and exclaiming, “ Scnza 
moccolo /” A stranger who has never seen it 
can form no idea of the deafening noise, the 
tumult, and the throng. The air is thick and 
warm with the mass of human beings and the 
burning lights. 

Suddenly, when some of the carriages had 
drawn off into one of the dark cross-streets, I 
saw close before me my two masks. The lights 
of the cavalier in the dressing-gown were ex- 
tinguished, but the young flow'er-girl held a 
bouquet of burning tapers aloft on a cane four 
or five ells long. She laughed aloud for joy 
that nobody could reach it with their handker- 
chiefs, and the man in the dressing-gown over- 
whelmed every body with comfits w T ho ventured 
to approach them. I would not allow myself 
to be terrified ; in a moment I had mounted on 
the back of the carnage, and seized hold of the 
cane, although I heard a beseeching “ No,” and 
her companion assailed me with gypsum bul- 
lets, and that not sparingly. I seized fast hold 
of the cane in order to extinguish the lights ; 
the cane broke in my hand, and the brilliant 
bouquet fell to the earth amid the shouting of 
the people. 

“ Fie, Antonio !” cried the flower-girl. It 
pierced me through bone and marrow ; for it 
was Annunciata’s voice. She threw all her 
comfits at my face, and the basket into the bar- 
gain. In my astonishment I leaped down, and 
the carriage rolled on. I saw, however, a nose- 
gay of flowers thrown to me as a token of rec- 
onciliation. I caught at it in the air, and would 
have followed them, but it was impossible to 
slip out ; for the carriages were all entangled, 
and there w T as the utmost confusion, although 
some turned to one side and some to the other. 
At length I escaped into a side-street ; but 
when I w r as able to breathe more freely I per- 
ceived a heavy weight at my heart. “With 
whom was Annunciata driving 1” 

That she wished to enjoy this, the last day 
of the carnival, seemed to me very natural ; 
but the gentleman in the dressing-gown 1 Ah, 
yes, my first conjecture was certainly correct : 

G 


it must be Bernardo ! I determined to con- 
vince myself of it. I ran in haste through the 
cross-streets, and came to the Piazza Colonna, 
w T here Annunciata lived, and posted myself by 
the door to await her arrival. Before long the 
carriage drove up, and,, as if I had been the ser- 
vant of the house, I sprang towards it. An- 
nunciata skipped out without seeming to notice 
me. Now came the gentleman in the dressing- 
gown ; he descended too slowly to be Bernar- 
do. “Thanks, my friend!” said he ; and I 
heard that it was the old lady-friend, and saw, 
by her feet and her brown gown, which hung 
below the dressing-gown, as she stepped out, 
•how much I had erred in my conjecture. 

. “ Felissima notte , Signora cried I aloud in 
my joy. 

Annunciata laughed, and said jestingly that 
I was a bad man, and that she therefore would 
set off to Florence ; but her hand pressed mine. 

Happy, and with a light heart, I left her, 
and shouted aloud the wild cry, “ Perish every 
one who carries not a taper !” and albthe while 
had not one myself. I thought in the meantime 
only on her and the good old woman, who had 
donned the dressing-gown and night-cap in or- 
der to enjoy the carnival fun, for which she did 
not seem created. And how beautiful and nat- 
ural it was of Annunciata, that she had not 
gone ‘driving about with strangers, and had not 
given a seat in her carriage to Bernardo, nor 
even to the chapel-master ! That I, the mo- 
ment I recognised her, had become jealous of 
the night-cap, was a something which I would 
not acknowledge. Happy and merry as I was, 
I resolved to spend in pleasure the few hours 
which yet remained before the carnival had 
passed like a dream* 

I went into the Festino. VThe whole theatre 
was decorated with garlands of lamps <*nd lights 
— all the boxes were filled with masks, and 
strangers without masks. From the pit a high 
broad step led to the stage, covering in the nar- 
row orchestra, and was decorated with drapery 
and garlands for a ball-room. Two orchestras 
played alternately. A crowd of quaqucri and 
vetturini masks danced a m$rry ring-dance 
around the Bacchus and Ariadne. They drew 
me into their circle ; and, in the gladness of 
my heart, I made my first dancing-essay, and 
found it so delightful that it did not remain the 
last. No ! for as, somewhat late at night, I 
hastened home, I danced about yet once more 
with the merry masks, and cried with them, 
“ The happiest night after the most beautiful 
carnival !” 

My sleep was only short. I thought in the 
lovely morning-hour on Annunciata, who now, 
perhaps, at this moment left Rome — thought 
upon the merry carnival-days, which seemed 
to have created a new life for me, and which 
now, with all their exultation and tumult, were 
vanished for ever. I had no rest — I must out 
into the free air. Every thing was all at once 
changed — all doors and shops were closed — 
but few people were in the streets — and in the 
Corso, where yesterday one could hardly move 
for the joyous throng, there were now to be 
seen only a few slaves in their white dresses 
with the broad blue stripes, who swept away 
the comfits, which lay upon the streets like 
hail, while a miserable horse with its hay bun- 


50 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


die, from which it kept eating, hanging by its 
side, drew along the little car into which the 
litter of the street was thrown. A vetturino 
drew up at a house, then fastened at the top of 
his coach trunks and bandboxes, drew a great 
mat over the whole, and then hooked the iron 
chain fast around the many boxes that were 
put behind. From one of the side-streets came 
another similarly laden coach. All went hence. 
They went to N aples or Florence. Rome would 
be as if dead for five long weeks, from Ash- 
Wednesday till Easter. 


CHAPTER XII. 

lent — allegri’s miserere in the sixtine chap- 
el VISIT TO BERNARDO ANNUNCIATA. 

Still and deathlike slid on the weary day. 
In thought I recalled and revived the spectacle 
of the carnival, and the great adventure of my 
own life, in which Annunciata played the chief 
part. And day as it succeeded to day brought 
with it again this uniformity and this grave- 
like stillness. I was conscious of an emptiness 
which my books could not fill. Bernardo had 
formerly been every thing to me ; now it was 
as if there lay a gulf between us. I felt myself 
constrained in his presence, and it became more 
and more clear to me that Annunciata alone 
occupied me. 

For some moments I was happy in this con- 
sciousness ; but there came also days and nights 
in which I thought on Bernardo, who had loved 
her before I had done so. He, indeed, it was 
also who had introduced me to her. I had as- 
sured him that it was admiration, and nothing 
more, which I fait for her — him, my only friend 
— him,, whom I had so often assured of my 
heart’s fidelity towards him. I was false and 
unjust. There burned in my heart the fire of 
remorse, but still my thoughts could not tear 
themselves from Annunciata. Every recollec- 
tion of her, of my most happy hours spent with 
her, sunk me into the deepest melancholy. 
Thus contemplate we the smiling image, beau- 
tiful as life, of the beloved dead ; and the more 
lifelike, the more kindly it smiles, the stronger 
is the melancholy which seizes us. The great 
struggle of life, of which I had so often been 
told at school, and which I had fancied was 
nothing more than the difficulties of a task, or 
the ill-humour or unreasonableness of a teach- 
er, I now, for the first time, began to feel. If I 
were to overcome this passion which had awoke 
within me, would not my former peace cer- 
tainly return 1 To what, also, could this love 
tend? Annunciata stood high in her art; yet 
the world w r ould condemn me if I forsook my 
calling to follow her. The Madonna, too, would 
be angry ; for I had been born and brought up 
as her servant. Bernardo would never forgive 
me ; and I did not know, either, whether An- 
nunciata loved me. That was at the bottom 
the bitterest thought to me. In vain I cast 
myself, in the church, before the image of the 
Madonna ; in vain I besought her to strengthen 
my soul in my great struggle, for even here my 
sin was increased — the Madonna was to me 
like Annunciata. It seemed to me that the 
countenance of everv beautiful woman wore 


that intellectual expression which existed In 
that of Annunciata. No ; I will rend these 
feelings out of my soul ! I will never again 
see her ! 

I now fully comprehended what I never 
could understand before — why people felt im- 
pelled to torture the body, that by the pain of 
the flesh they might conquer :.n the spiritual 
combat. My burning lips kissed the cold mar- 
ble feet of the Madonna, and for the moment 
peace returned to my soul. I thought upon 
my childhood, when my dear mother yet lived ; 
how happy I had been then, and what many 
delights even this dead time before Easter had 
brought me. 

And all, indeed, was just the same as then. 
In the corners and the squares stood, as then, 
the little green huts of leaves, ornamented 
with gold and silver stars ; and all round still 
hung the beautiful shields like signs, with their 
verses, which told that delicious dishes for 
Lent were here to be obtained. Every even- 
ing they lighted the gay-coloured paper-lamps 
under the green boughs. How had I, as a 
child, delighted myself with these things ! how 
happy had I been in the splendid booth of the 
bacon-dealer, which in Lent glittered like a 
w T orld of fancy ! The pretty angels of butter 
danced in a temple, of which sausages, wreath- 
ed with silver, formed the pillars, and a Par- 
mesan cheese the cupola ! My first poem, to be 
sure, had been about all this magnificence ; and 
the bacon-dealer’s lady had called it a Divina 
Commedia di Dante ! Then I had heard not 
Annunciata, but neither did I know any singer. 
Would that I could forget Annunciata ! 

I went with the procession to the seven holy 
churches of Rome, mingled my song with those 
of the pilgrims, and my emotions were deep and 
sincere. But one day Bernardo whispered into 
my ear, with demon-like mirth ; “ The merry 
law r yer on the Corso — the bbld improvisatore, 
with penitence in his eyes, and ashes on his 
cheeks ! Ay, how well you can do it all ! how 
you understand every part ! I cannot imitate you 
here, Antonio !” There was a jeer, and yet, at 
the same time, an apparent truth in his wrnrds, 
which wmunded me deeply. 

The last w'eek of Lent was come, and stran- 
gers streamed back towards Rome. Carriage 
after carriage rolled in through the Porta del 
Popolo and the Porta del Giovanni. On Wed- 
nesday afternoon began the Miserere in the Six- 
tine chapel. My soul longed for music ; in the 
world of melody I could find sympathy and con- 
solation. The throng was great, even within 
the chapel — the foremost division was already 
filled with ladies. Magnificent boxes, hung with 
velvet and golden draperies, for royal persona- 
ges and foreigners from various courts, were 
here erected so high, that they looked out be- 
yond the richly carved railing which separated 
the ladies from the interior of the chapel. The 
papal Swiss guards stood in their bright festal 
array. The officers wore light armour, and 
in their helmets a waving plume : this was par- 
ticularly becoming to Bernardo, who w T as greet- 
ed by the handsome young ladies with whom he 
was acquainted. 

I obtained a seat immediately within the bai 
rier, not far from the place where the papal sing 
ers were stationed. Several English people sat 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


51 


behind me. I had seen them during the carni- 
val, in their gaudy masquerade dresses : here 
they wore the same. They wished to pass them- 
selves off for officers, even boys of ten years old. 
They all wore the most expensive uniforms, of 
the most showy and ill-matched colours. As 
for example, one wore a light blue coat, embroi- 1 
dered with silver, gold upon the slippers, and a 
sort of turban with feathers and pearls. But 
this was not anything new at the festivals in 
Rome, where a uniform obtained for its wearer 
a better seat. The people who were near smi- 
led at it, but it did not occupy me long. 

The old cardinals entered in their magnificent 
violet-coloured velvet cloaks, with their white 
ermine capes ; and seated themselves side by 
side, in a great half-circle, within the barrier, 
whilst the priests who had carried their trains 
seated themselves at their feet. By the. little 
side-door of the altar the holy father now enter- 
ed in his purple mantle and silver tiara. He as- 
cended his throne. Bishops swung the vessels 
of incense around him, whilst young priests, in 
scarlet vestments, knelt, with lighted torches in 
their hands, before him and the high altar. 

The reading of the lessons began.* But it 
was impossible to keep the eyes fixed on the 
lifeless letters of the Missal — they raised them- 
selves, with the thoughts, to the vast universe 
which Michael Angelo has breathed forth in col- 
ours upon the ceiling and the walls. I contem- 
plated his mighty sibyls and wondrously glori- 
ous prophets, every one of them a subject for a 
painting. My eyes drank in the magnificent pro- 
cessions, the beautiful groups of angels ; they 
were not to me painted pictures, all stood living 
before me. The rich tree of knowledge, from 
which Eve gave the fruit to Adam; the Almigh- 
ty God, who floated over the waters, not borne 
up by angels, as the old masters had represent- 
ed him — no, the company of angels rested upon 
him and his fluttering garments. It is true I 
had seen these pictures before, but never as now 
had they seized upon me. The crowd of people, 
perhaps even the lyric of my thoughts, made me 
wonderfully alive to poetical impressions ; and 
many a poet’s heart has felt as mine did ! 

The bold foreshortenings, the determinate 
force with which every figure steps forward, is 
amazing, and carries one quite away ! It is a 
spiritual Sermon on the Mount in colour and 
form. Like Raphael, we stand in astonishment 
before the power of Michael Angelo. Every 
prophet is a Moses like that which he formed in 
marble. What giant forms are those which 
seize upon our eye and our thoughts as we en- 
ter ! But, when intoxicated with this view, let 
us turn our eyes to the back-ground of the chap- 
el, whose whole wall is a high altar of art and 
thought. The great chaotic picture, from the 
floor to the roof, shews itself there like a jew- 
%1, of which all the rest is only the setting. We 
see there the Last Judgment. 

Christ stands in judgment upon the clouds, 
and the apostles and his mother stretch forth 
their hands beseechingly for the poor human 
race. The dead raise the grave-stones under 
which they have lain ; blessed spirits float up- 


* Before the commencement of the Miserere, fifteen long 
lessons are read ; and, at the close of each one, a light in 
the grand candelabra is extinguished, there being a light for 
every lesson. — Author's Note. 


wards, adoring to God, whilst the abyss seizes 
its victims. Here one of the ascending spirits 
seeks to save his condemned brother, whom the 
abyss already embraces in its snaky folds. The 
children of despair strike their clenched fists 
upon their brows, and sink into the depths ! In 
bold foreshortening, float and tumble whole le- 
gions between heaven and earth. The sympa- 
thy of the angels ; the expression of lovers who 
meet ; the child that, at the sound of the trum- 
pet, clings to the mother’s breast, is so natural 
and beautiful, that one believes one’s self to be 
one among those who are waiting for judgment. 
Michael Angelo has expressed in colours what 
Dante saw and has sung to the generations of 
the earth. 

The descending sun, at that moment, threw 
his last beams in through the uppermost win- 
dow. Christ, and the blessed around him, were 
strongly lighted up ; whilst the lower part, where 
the dead arose, and the demons thrust their boat, 
laden with damned, from shore, were almost in 
darkness. 

Just as the sun went down the last lesson was 
ended, and the last light which now remained 
was extinguished, and the whole picture-world 
vanished from before me ; but, in that same mo- 
ment, burst forth music and singing. That 
which colour had bodily revealed arose now in 
sound : the day of Judgment, with its despair 
and its exultation, resounded above us. 

The father of the church, stripped of his pa- 
pal pomp, stood before the alter and prayed to 
the holy cross ; and upon the wings of the trum- 
pet resounded the trembling quire, “ Populus 
rneus , quid feci tibi ?” Soft angel tones rose 
above the deep song, tones which ascended not 
from a human breast : it was not a man’s nor a 
woman’s : it belonged to the world of spirits : 
it was like the weeping of angels dissolved in 
melody. 

In this world of harmony my soul imbibed 
strength and the fulness of life. I felt myself 
joyful and' strong, as I had not been for a long 
time. Annunciata, Bernardo, all my love, pass- 
ed before my thought. I loved, in this moment, 
as blessed spirits may love. The peace which 
I had sought in prayer, but had not found, flow- 
ed now, with these tones, into my heart. 

When the Miserere was ended, and the peo- 
ple all had gone away, I was sitting with Ber- 
nardo in his room. I offered him my hand in 
sincerity, spoke all that my excited soul dicta- 
ted. My lips became eloquent. Allegri’s Mis- 
erere, our friendship, all the adventures of my 
singular life, furnished material. I told him 
how morally strong the music had made me, 
how heavy my heart had been previously — my 
sufferings, anxiety, and melancholy, during the 
whole of Lent; yet, without confessing how 
great a share he and Annunciata had had in the 
whole : this was the only little fold of my heart 
which I did not unveil to him. He laughed at 
me, and said, that I was a poor sort of a man ; 
that the shepherd-life, with Domenica and the 
Signora, all that woman’s education, and, last 
of all, the Jesuit school, had quite been the ruin 
of me ; that my hot Italian blood had been thin- 
ned with goat’s milk ; that my Trappist-hermit 
life had made me sick ; that it was necessary for 
me to have a little tame bird, which would sing 
me out of my dream-world ; that I ought to be 


62 


THE IMPROVISATORS 


a man ue other folks, and then I should find 
myself sound both body and soul. 

■ We are very different, Bernardo,” said I; 

“ and yet my heart is wonderfully attached to 
you : at times I wish that we could be always 
together/’ 

“Then it would not go well with our friend-, 
ship,” replied he ; “ no f then it would be all 
over with it before we were aware ! Friend- 
ship is like love, all the stronger for separation. 

I think sometimes how wearisome it must be in 
reality to be married. For ever and for ever to 
see one another, and that in the smallest things. 
Most married folks are disgusting to one anoth- 
*er; it is a sort of propriety, a species of good- 
nature, which holds them together in the long 
run. I feel very well, in myself, that if my 
heart glows eveY so fiercely, and hers whom 1 
love burns the same, yet would these flames, if 
they met, be extinguished. Love is desire, and 
desire dies when gratified.” 

“ But if, now, your wife were beautiful and 
discreet as — ” 

“As Annunciata,” said he, seeing that I hes- 
itated for the name which I wanted. “Yes, 
Antonio, I would look at the beautiful rose as 
long as it were fresh ; and when the leaves 
withered and the fragrance was lost, God knows 
what I then should have a fancy for. At this 
moment, however, I have a very curious one, 
and I have felt something like it before. * I have 
a wish to see how red your blood is, Antonio ! 
But I am a reasonable man — you are my friend, 
my honest friend ; we will not fight, even if we 
cross each other in the same love-adventure !” 
And with this he laughed loud, pressed me vio- 
lently to his breast, and said, half-jestingly, “I 
will make over to you my tame bird ; it begins 
to be sensitive, and will certainly please you ! 
Go with me this evening; confidential friends 
need not hide any thing from one another ; we 
will have a merry evening ! On Sunday the 
holy father will give us all his blessing !” 

“ I shall not go with you,” I replied. 

“ You are a coward, Antonio !” said he ; “ do 
not let the goat’s milk entirely subject your 
blood ! Your eye can burn like mine ; it can 
truly burn ; I have seen it ! Your sufferings, 
your anxiety; your penitence in Lent ; yes, shall 
I openly tell you the reason of them? I know r 
it very well, Antonio ; you cannot hide it from 
me ! Now, then, clasp Beauty to your heart — 
only you have not the courage — you are a cow- 
ard, or — ” 

“Your conversation, Bernardo,” replied I, 
‘ offends me !” 

“ But you must endure it, though,” he an- 
swered. At these words the blood mounted 
into my cheeks, whilst my eyes filled with tears. 

“ Can you thus sport with my devotion for 
you*” I cried. “Do you fancy that I have 
come between you and Annunciata; fancy that 
she has regarded me with more kindness than 
yourself?” 

“Oh, no!” interrupted he, “you know very 
well that I have not such a vivid fancy. But 
do not let her come into our conversation. And 
with regard to your devotion to me, of which 
you are always talking, I do not understand it. 
We give one another the hand ; we are friends, 
reasonable friends ; but your notions are over- 
strained— me you must take as I am.” 


This probably was the sting in our conversa- 
tion — the part which went to my heart, and, so 
to say, went into the blood : I felt myself 
wounded, and yet in his hand-pressure, at part- 
ing, there was a something cordial.- 

The next day, which was Green-Thursday, 
called me .to the church of St. Peter’s, into 
w r hose magnificent vestibule, the greatness of 
which has indeed led some strangers to imagine 
that it was the whole church, as great a throng 
was found as was seen in the streets and across 
the bridge of St. Angelo. It was as if the whole 
of Rome flocked here to wonder, even as much 
as strangers did, at the greatness of the church, 
which seemed more and more to extend itself 
to the throng. 

Singing resounded above us ; two great choirs, 
in different parts of the nave of the church, re- 
plied to each other. The throng crowded to 
witness the feet-w T ashing, which had just be- 
gun.* From the barrier behind which the stran- 
ger ladies were seated, one of them nodded 
kindly to me. It was Annunciata. She was 
come — was here in the church ; my heart beat 
violently. I stood so near to her that I could, 
bid her welcome ! 

She had arrived the day before, but still too 
late to hear Allegri’s Miserere ; yet she had 
been present at the Ave Maria in the church of 
St. Peter’s. 

“The extraordinary gloom,” said she, “made 
all more imposing than now by day-light ! Not 
a light burned, excepting the lamps at St. Pe- 
ter’s tomb ; these formed a wreath of light, and 
yet not strong enough to illumine the nearest 
pillar. All marched around in silence ; I, too, 
sank down ; feeling right vividly how very much 
can be comprised in nothing : what force there 
lies in a religious silence !” 

Her old friend, whom I now first discovered, 
and who wore a long veil, nodded kindly. The 
solemn ceremony was in the meantime conclu- 
ded, and they looked in vain for their servant, 
who should have attended them to their car- 
riage. A crowd of young men had become 
aware of Annunciata’s presence ; she seemed 
uneasy, and wished to go ; I ventured to en- 
treat that I might conduct them out of the 
church to their carriage. The old lady immedi- 
ately took my arm ; but Annunciata walked be- 
side of us ; I had not courage to offer her my 
arm ; but when we neared the door, and were 
carried along with the crowd, I felt her arm 
within mine ; it went like fire through my blood . 

I found the carriage. When they were seat- 
ed, Annunciata asked me to dine with them that 
day, “Only to eat a meagre dinner,” said she, 
“such as we may enjoy in Lent.” 

I was happy ! The old lady, who did not 
hear well, understood, however, by the expres- 
sion of Annunciata’s face, that it was an invi- 
tation, but imagined that it was to take a seat 
with them in the carriage. She, therefore, in a 
moment put aside all the shawls and cloaks 
Trhich lay on the seat opposite, and extended to 
me her hand, saying, “Yes, be so good, Mr. 
Abbe ! there is room enough !” 

That was not Annunciata’s meaning : I saw 

. * On Green-Thursday the Pope washes the feet of thir- 
teen priests, old and young ; they kiss his hand, and he 
gi-’©3 to them a bouquet of blue gillyflowers. — Author's 
No\e. 


9 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


53 


5 slight crimson pass over her cheek ; but I sat 
ffirectly opposite to her, and the carriage rolled 
away. 

A delicious little dinner awaited us. Annun- 
ciata spoke o her residence in Florence, and of 
the festival of to-day ; inquired from me about 
Lent in Rome, and how I had passed the time; 
a question which I could not answer quite can- 
didly. 

“You will certainly see the christening of 
the Jews on Easter-day 1” asked I, casting, at 
the same time, a glance at the old woman, 
whom I had quite forgotten. 

» “She did not hear it!” replied Annunciata, 
“and, if she had, you need not have minded. I 
only go to such places as she can accompany 
me to, and for her it would not be becoming to 
be present at the festival in the baptismal chap- 
el of Constantine.* Neither is it very interest- 
ing to me ; for it so rarely happens that it is 
from conviction that either Jews or Turks re- 
ceive baptism. I remember, in my childhood, 
what an unpleasant impression this whole scene 
made upon me. I saw a little Jew boy, who 
seemed to be seven years old ; he came forth 
with the dirtiest shoes and stockings, with thin, 
uncombed hair; and, in the most painful con- 
trast with this, in a magnificent white silk dress, 
which the church had given him. The parents, 
filthy as the boy, followed him ; they had sold 
his soul for a happiness which they did not 
know themselves !” 

“You saw that as a child here in Romel” 
asked I. 

“ Yes 1” returned she, crimsoning ; “ but yet, 
for all that, I am not a Roman.” 

“The first time I saw’ you, and heard you 
sing,” said I, “ it seemed to me that I had 
Known you before. I do not even know but I 
fancy so still ! If we believed in the transmigra- 
tion of souls, I could farcy that we both had 
been birds, had hopped upon the same twigs, 
and had known one another for a very long time. 
Is there any kind of recollection in your soull 
aothing which says to you that we have seen 
each other before 1” 

“Nothing at all!” replied Annunciata, and 
looked me steadfastly in the face. 

“ As you have just told me that you were 
a child in Rome, and consequently not, as I 
thought, had passed all your young years in 
Spain, a remembrance awoke in my soul, the 
same wiiich I felt the first time that you stood 
before me as Dido. Have you never, as a child, 
at Christmas, made a speech before the little 
Jesus, in the church Ara Cceli, like other chil- 
dren 1” 

“ That I have !” exclaimed she; “and you, 
Antonio, were the little boy who drew all atten- 
tion !” 

“ But was supplanted by you !” returned I.' 

“ It was you, Antonio !” exclaimed she, aloud, 
seizing both my hands, and looking into my face 
with an indescribably gentle expression. The 
old lady drew her chair nearer to us, and looked 
gravely at us. Annunciata then related the 
whole to her, and sh*e smiled at our recognition- 
scene. 

“ How my mother and every body talked 


about you,” said I ; “ of your delicate, almost 
spirit-like form, and your sweet voice . r yes, I 
was jealous of you, my vanity cbuld not endure 
to be cast so wholly in the shade by any one. 
How strangely paths in life cross one another !” 

“ I remember you very well !” said she ; “ you 
had on a little short jacket, with a many white 
buttons, and these at that time excited most my 
interest for you !” 

“ You,” replied I, “had a beautiful red scarf 
upon your breast ; but yet it was not that, but 
your eyes, your jet-black hair which most of all 
captivated me ! Yes, I could not but recognise 
you ; you are the same as then, only the features 
more developed ; I should have known them, 
even under a greater change. I said so imme- 
diately to Bernardo, but he gainsaid me, and 
thought it must be quite another — ” 

“ Bernardo !” she exclaimed ; and it seemed 
to me that her voice trembled. 

“ Yes !” I replied, somewhat confused ; “ he 
fancied also that he knew you, that he had seen 
you, I should say ; seen you, and connected in 
such a way, as did not agree with my conjecture. 
Your dark hair, your glance — yes, you will not 
be angry with me, he immediately changed his 
opinion ; he fancied at the first moment that you 
were — ” I hesitated ; “ that you were not of 
the Catholic church, and thus that I could not 
have heard you preach in Ar^ Cceli.” 

“ That I was, perhaps, of the same faith as my 
friend here!” said Annunciata, indicating the 
old lady. I nodded involuntarily, but seized her 
hand at the same time, and asked, “ Are you 
angry with me 1” 

“ Because your friend took me for a Jewish 
ifiaiden 1” asked she, smiling; “you are a 
strange creature !” 

I felt that our connexion in childhood had 
made us more familiar ; every care was forgot- 
ten by me, and also every resolution never to 
see, never to love her. My soul burned only for 
her. 

The galleries were closed these two days be- 
fore Easter ; Annunciata said how charming it 
must be, if, at this time, and quite at one’s ease, 
one could wander through them ; but that was 
hardly possible. The wish from her lips was a 
command ; I knew the custodian and the door- 
keeper, all the dependants Avho now were re- 
turned to the Palazzo Borghese, where was one 
of the most interesting collections in Rome, 
through which I, as a child, had gone with 
Francesca, and made acquaintance with every 
little Love in Francesco Albani’s Four Seasons. 

I entreated that I might take her and the old 
lady there the following day ; she consented, 
and I was infinitely happy. 

In my solitude at home I again thought on 
Bernardo ! no, he loved her not, I consoled my- 
self with thinking ; “ his love is only sensual, 
not pure and great like mine !” Our last con- 
versation seemed to me still more bitter than it 
had done before ; I saw only his pride, felt my- 
self very much offended, and worked myself up 
into a greater passion than I had ever done be- 
fore. His pride had been wounded by Annun- 
eiata’s apparently greater kindness towards me 
than him. To be sure it was he who introduced 
me to her, but perhaps his intention only was to 
make fun of me, and therefore he had expressed 
astonishment at my singing, and at my imprcv 


* Annually, on Easter-day, some Jews or Turks arc 
baptized. In the Diario Roviano this day is thus marked 
tifa il battesimo di Ebrei e Turchi. — Author's Note. 


54 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


isation — be had never dreamed that I could 
outshine his handsome person, his free and bold 
manner. Now,' it had been his intention to de- 
ter me from again visiting her. But a good 
angel had willed it otherwise ! her gentleness, 
her eyes, all had told me that she loved me, that 
she had a kindness for me, nay, more than a 
kindness, for she must have felt that I loved 
her ! 

In my joy I pressed hot kisses upon my pil- 
low, but with this feeling of the happiness of 
love a bitterness arose in my heart towards 
Bernardo. I grew angry with myself for not 
having had more character, more warmth, more 
gall ; now a hundred excellent answers occur- 
red to me, which I might have given him when 
he treated me the last time like a boy ; every 
little affront which he had given now stood liv- 
ingly before me. For the first time I felt the 
blood regularly boil in my veins ; hot anger and 
the purest and best emotions, mingled with a 
hateful bitterness, deprived me of sleep. It was 
not until towards morning that I slumbered a 
little, and then awoke stronger and lighter of 
heart. 

I announced to the custodian that I was about 
to bring a foreign lady to see the gallery, and 
then went to Annunciata. We drove all three 
to the Palazzo Borshese. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE PICTURE GALLERY A MORE PRECISE EX- 
PLANATION EASTER THE TURNING POINT OP 

MY HISTORY. 

It was to me quite a peculiar feeling to con- 
duct Annunciata to where I had played as a boy 
— where the signora had shewn to me the pic- 
tures, and had amused herself with my naive 
inquiries and remarks. I knew every piece, but 
Annunciata knew them better than I did ; her 
observations were most apposite ; with an ac- 
customed eye, and natural taste, she detected 
every beauty. We stood before that celebrated 
piece of Gerardo del Notti, Lot and his Daugh- 
ters. I praised it for its great effect — Lot’s 
strong countenance, and the life-enjoying daugh- 
ter who offered him wine, and the red evening 
heaven which shone through the dark trees. 

“It is painted with soul and flame!” ex- 
claimed she. “ I admire the pencil of this 
artist, as regards colouring and expression ; 
but the subjects which he has chosen do not 
please me. I require, even in pictures, a kind 
of fitness, a noble purity in the selection of the 
subject ; therefore Correggio’s Danae pleases 
me less than it might do ; beautiful is she, 
divine is the little angel with the bright wings, 
which sits upon the couch, and helps her to 
collect together the gold, but the subject is to 
me ignoble, it wounds, so to say, my heart’s 
feeling of beauty. For this reason is Raphael 
so great in my judgment ; in every thing that 
I have seen of his, he is the apostle of inno- 
cence, and he, therefore, alone has been able to 
give us the Madonna !” / 

“ But beauty, as a work of art,” interrupted 
I, “can, however, make us overlook the want 
of nobility in subject.” 

“ Never !” replied Annunciata ; “ art in every 


one of its branches is high and holy ; and purity 
in spirit is more attractive than purity of form ; 
and therefore the naive representations of the 
Madonna by the olden masters excite us so 
deeply, although, with their rough forms they 
often seem more like Chinese pictures, where 
all is so stiff and hard. The spirit must be 
pure in the pictures of the painter, as well as in 
the song of the poet ; some extravagances I 
can forgive, call them something startling, and 
lament that the painter has fallen into such, but 
I can, nevertheless, please myself with the 
whole.” 

“ But,” I exclaimed, “ variety in subject i& 
interesting ; to see always — ” 

“You mistake me!” she returned. “I dc 
not desire that people should always paint 
Madonnas! no; I am delighted with a glorious 
landscape, a living scene out of the life of the 
people, a ship in a storm, and the robber-scenes 
of Salvator Rosa ! But I will not have any 
thing revolting in the region of art, and so I 
call even Scidoni’s well-painted sketch in the 
Sciara Palazzo. You have not forgotten it ' 
Two peasants upon asses ride past a stone 
wall, upon which lies a death’s head, within 
which sit a mouse, a gadfly, and a worm, and 
on the wall these words are to be read, ‘ Et ego 
in Arcadia V ” 

“I know it,” replied I; “it hangs by the 
side of Raphael’s charming violin-player.” 

“Yes,” returned Annunciata; “would that 
the inscription was placed under this, and not 
upon the other hateful picture !” 

We now stood before Francesco Albani’s 
Four Seasons. I told her what an impression 
the little. Loves had made upon me as a child, 
when I had lived and played about in this 
gallery. 

“ You enjoyed happy life-points in your child- 
hood !” said she, repressing a sigh, which per- 
haps had reference to her own. 

“ You, doubtless, no less so,” replied I ; 
“ you stood, the first time I saw you, like a 
happy, admired child, and, when we met the 
second time, you captivated the whole of Rome, 
and — seemed happy. Were you so really at 
heart 1” 

I had bowed myself half down to her. She 
looked directly into my face with an expression 
of singular melancholy, and said, “ Thfe admi- 
red, happy child was fatherless and motherless 
— a homeless bird upon the leafless twig ; k 
might have perished of hunger, but the despised 
Jew gave it shelter and food till it could flutter 
forth over the wild, restless sea !” 

She ceased, and then, shaking her head, add- 
ed, “ But these are not adventures which could 
interest a stranger; and I cannot tell how I 
have been induced to gossip about it.” 

' She would have moved on, but I seized her 
hand, whilst I inquired, “Am I, then, such a 
stranger to you 1” 

She gazed for a moment before her in silence, 
and said, with a pensive smile, “Yes, I, too, 
have also had beautiful moments in life. And,” 
added she, with her accustomed gaiety, “I 
will only think on these ! Our meeting as 
children — your strange dreaming about that 
which is past, infected me also, and made the 
heart turn to its own pictures, instead of the 
works of art which surround us here !” 


THE IMPROVISATORS 


55 


When we left the gallery and had returned 
to her hotel, we found that Bernardo had been 
there to pay his respects to her. They told 
him that she and the old lady had driven out, 
and that I had accompanied them. His dis- 
pleasure at the knowledge of this I had fore- 
seen already ; but instead of grieving over this, 
as I should have done formerly, my love for 
Annunciata had awoke defiance and bitterness 
towards him. He had so often wished that I 
was possessed of character and determination, 
even if it made me unjust to him ; now he 
would see that I had both. 

For ever rung in my ear Annunciata’s words 
about the despised Jew who took the homeless 
bird under his wings ; she must then be the 
same whom Bernardo had seen at the old Ha- 
noch’s. This interested me infinitely ; but I 
could not again induce her to renew the subject. 

When I made my appearance the next day, I 
found her in her chamber, studying a new piece. 
I entertained myself for a long time with the 
old lady, who w'as more deaf than I had im- 
agined, and who seemed right thankful that I 
would talk with her. It had occurred to me 
that she had seemed kindly disposed to me 
since my first improvisation ; and from that I 
had imagined that she had heard it. 

“ And so I have done,” she assured ane ; 
“from the expression of your countenance, ^nd 
from some few words which reached me I un- 
derstood the whole. And it was beautiful ! It 
is in this way that I understand all Annuncia- 
ta’s recitative, and that alone by the expression ; 
my eye has become acuter as my ear has be- 
come duller.” * 

She questioned me about Bernardo, who had 
called yesterday when we w r ere out, and lament- 
ed that he was not with us. She expressed an 
extraordinary goocl-will towards him, and great 
interest. “ Yes,” said she, as I assented to it, 
“ he has a noble character ! I know one trait 
of him. May the God of the Jew and the 
Christian defend him for it !” 

By degrees she became more eloquent. Her 
affection for Annunciata was touching and 
strong. Thus much became clear to me out of 
the many broken and half-darkly expressed 
communications which she made. Annunciata 
was born in Spain, of Spanish parents. In her 
early childhood she came to Rome ; and when 
she became there suddenly fatherless and moth- 
erless, the old Hanoch, who, in his youth, 
had been in her native land, and had known her 
parents, was the only one who befriended her. 
Afterwards, whilst yet a child, she was sent 
back to her native country, to a lady who culti- 
vated her voice and her dramatic talent. A 
man of great influence had fallen in love with 
the beautiful girl ; but her coldness towards him 
had awoke in him bitterness, and a desire to ob- 
tain her by craft. The old woman seemed un- 
willing to lift the mysterious veil which cover- 
ed this terrible time. Annunciata’s life was in 
danger ; she secretly fled to Italy, where it 
would be difficult to discover her, with her old 
foster-father, in the Jews’ quarter in Rome. It 
was only a year and a half since this happened ; 
and during this time it was that Bernardo had 
seen her, and when she had presented him with 
the wine of which he had spoken so much. 
How indiscreet it seemed to me to shew her- 


self thus to a stranger, when she might have 
expected an assassin in every one of them. 
Yes, she knew indeed that Bernardo was not 
such a one ; she had heard nothing, indeed, but 
the praises of his boldness and of his noble con- 
duct. Shortly after this, they heard that her 
persecutor was dead. She flew forth, therefore, 
inspired by her Sacred art, and enraptured the 
people by it and her beauty. The old lady ac- 
companied her to Naples, saw her gather her 
first laurels, and had not yet left her. 

“ Yes,” continued the eloquent old lady, “ she 
is also an angel of God ! Pious is she in her 
faith, as a woman ought to be ; and understand- 
ing has she as much as one could wish for the 
best heart.” , 

I left the house just as the joy-firing com- 
menced. In all the streets, in the squares, from 
balconies and window’s, people stood with small 
cannons and pistols, which was a sign that Lent 
w'as now at an end. The dark curtains with 
wffiich, for five long weeks, the pictures in 
churches and chapels had been covered, fell off 
at the same moment. All w r as Easter gladness. 
The time of sorrow was over to-morrow was 
Easter, the day of joy, and of twofold joy for 
me ; for I was invited to accompany Annunciata 
to the church festival and the illumination of 
the dome. 

The bells of Easter rang — the cardinals rolled 
abroad in their gay carriages, loaded with ser- 
vants behind — the equipages of rich foreigners 
— the crowd of foot-passengers, filled the whole 
narrow 7 streets. From the Castle of St. Angelo 
waved the great flag on which were the papal 
arms and the Madonna’s holy image. In the 
square of St. Peter’s there was music, and round 
about garlands of roses, and woodcuts, repre- 
senting the Pope distributing his blessing, w r ere 
to be purchased. The fountains threw up their 
gigantic columns of w 7 ater, and all around by 
the colonnades were loges and benches, wffiich 
already, like the square itself, were almost 
filled. 

• Anon, and almost as great a throng proceeded 
from the church, wffiere processions and sing- 
ing, exhibitions of holy, relics, fragments of food, 
nails, &c., had refreshed many a pious mind. 
The immense square seemed a sea of human 
beings ; head moved itself to head ; the line of 
carriages drew itself closer together ; peasants 
and boys climbed up the pedestals of the saints. 
It seemed as if all Rome at this moment lived 
and breathed only here. 

The Pope w 7 as borne in procession out of 
church. He sat aloft on the shoulders of six 
priests apparelled in lilac-coloured robes, upon a 
magnificent throne-chair ; two younger priests 
w r aved before him colossal peacocks’ tails on 
long staves ; priests preceded him swinging the 
vessels of incense, and cardinals followed after, 
singing hymns. 

As soon as the procession had issued from 
the portal, all the choirs of music received him 
with triumph. They bore him up the lofty steps 
to the gallery, upon whose balcony he soon 
shewed himself, surrounded by cardinals. Every 
one dropped on their knees — long lines of sol- 
diers — the aged person like the child — the Prot- 
estant stranger alone stood erect, and would not 
bow himself for the blessing of an old man. 
Annunciata half kneeled in the carriage, and 


56 


THE IMPROVISATORS . 


looked up to the holy father with soul-full eyes. 
A deep silence reigned around, and the blessing, 
like invisible tongues of fire, was wafted over 
the heads of us all. 

Next fluttered down from the Papal balcony 
two different papers ; the one containing a for- 
giveness of all sins, the other a curse against 
all the enemies of the church. And the people 
struck about them to obtain even the smallest 
scrap of them. 

.Again rang the bells of all the churches ; mu- 
sic mingled itself in the jubilant sound. I was 
as happy as Annunciata. At the moment when 
our carriage was set in motion, Bernardo rode 
close up to us. He saluted both the ladies, but 
appeared not to see met. 

“ How pale he was !” said Annunciata ; “ is 
he ill 1” 

“ I fancy not,” I replied ; but I knew very, 
well what had chased the blood from his cheeks. 

This matured my determination. I felt how 
deeply I loved Annunciata ; that I could give up 
every thing for her if she yielded me her love. 
I resolved to follow her. I doubted not of my 
dramatic talent ; and my singing — I knew the 
effect which my singing had produced. I should 
certainly make my dtbut with honour when. I 
had once ventured on this step. If she loved 
me, what pretension had Bernardo 1 He might 
woo her if his love were as strong as mine; 
and, if she loved him — yes, then I would in- 
stantly withdraw my claim. 

1 wrote all this to him in a letter that same 
day, and I will venture to believe that there 
breathed in it a warm and true heart, for many 
tears fell upon the paper as I spoke of our early 
acquaintance, and how wonderfully my heart 
had always clung to him. The letter was de- 
spatched, and I felt myself calmer, although the 
thought of losing Annunciata, like the vulture 
of Prometheus, rent my heart with its sharp 
beak ; yet, nevertheless, I dreamed of accom- 
panying her for ever, and of winning at her side 
honour and joy. As singer, as improvisatore, 
I should now begin the drama of my life. 

After the Ave Maria I went with Annunciata 
and the old lady in their carriage to see the illu- 
mination of the dome. The whole of the church 
of St. Peter’s, with its lofty cupola, the two less- 
er ones by its side, and the whole faqade, were 
adorned with transparencies and paper lanterns ; 
these were so placed in the architecture that 
the whole immense building stood with a fiery 
outline amid the blue air. The throng in the 
neighbourhood of the church seemed greater 
than in the forenoon ; we could scarcely move at 
a foot’s pace. We first saw from the bridge of 
St. Angelo the whole illuminated giant structure, 
which was reflected in the yellow Tiber, where 
boat-loads of rejoicing people were charmed with 
the whole picture. 

When we reached the square of St. Peter’s, 
where all was music, the ringing of bells and 
rejoicing, the signal was just given for the chan- 
ging of the illumination. Many hundreds of 
men were dispersed over the roof and dome of 
the church where, at one and the same moment, 
they shoved forwards great iron pans with burn- 
ing pitch-garlands ; it was as if every lantern 
burst forth into flame ; the whole structure be- 
came a blazing temple of God, which shone over 
Rome, like the star over the cradle in Bethle- 


hem.* The triumph of the people increased 
every moment, and Annunciata was overcome 
by the view of the whole. 

“ Vet it is horrible !” she exclaimed. “Only 
think of the unhappy man who must fasten on 
and kindle the topmost light on the cross upon 
the great cupola. The very thought makes me 
dizzy.” 

“ It is as lofty as the pyramids of Egypt,” 
said I ; “it requires boldness in the man to 
swing himself up there, and to fasten the string. 
The holy father gives him the sacrament, there- 
fore, before he ascends.” 

“ Thus must the life of a human being be risk- 
ed,” sighed she ; “ and that merely for the pomp 
and gladness of a moment.” 

“But it is done for the glorifying of God,” I 
replied ; “ and how often do we not risk it for 
much less V' 

The carriages rushed past us ; most of them 
drove to Monte Pincio, in order to see from * 
that distance the illuminated church, and the 
whole city which swam in its glory: 

“ Yet it is,” said I, “a beautiful idea, that all 
the light over the city beams from the church. 
Perhaps Correggio drew from this the idea for 
his immortal night.” 

“Pardon me,” she said; “do you not re- 
member that the picture was completed before 
the^church 1 Certainly he derived the idea 
from his own heart ; and it seems to me also 
far more beautiful. But we must see the whole 
show from a more distant point. Shall we 
drive up to Monte Maria, where the throng is 
not so great, or to Monte Pincio 1 We are 
close by the gate.” 

We rolled along behind the colonnade, and 
were soon in the open country. The carriage 
drew up at the little inn on the hill. The cu- 
pola looked glorious from this*point ; it seemed 
as if built of burning suns. The fa 9 ade, it is 
true, was not to be seen, but this only added to 
the effect ; the splendour which diffused itself 
through the illumined air caused it to appear as 
if the cupola, burning with stars, swam in a sea 
of light. The music and the ringing of bells 
reached us, but all aroujid us reigned a twofold 
night, and the stars stood only like white points . 
high in the blue air, as if they had dimned their 
shine above the splendid Easter fire of Rome. 

I dismounted from the carriage, and went 
into the little inn to fetch them some refresh- 
ment. As I was returning through the narrow 
passage where the lamp burned before the im- 
age of the Virgin, Bernardo stood before me, 
pale as when, in the Jesuit school, he received 
the garland. His eyes glowed as if with the 
delirium of fever, and he seized my hand with 
the force and wildness of a madman. 

“ I am not an assassin, Antonio,” said he, 
with a strangely suppressed voice, “ or I would 
drive my sabre into your false heart ; but fight 
with me you shall ! whether your cowardice 
will or will not. Come, come with me !” 

“Bernardo, are you madl” inquired I, and 
wildly tore myself from him. 

“ Only cry aloud,” returned he, with the same 


* The church is entirely built of stone : so are the sur- 
rounding edifices ; thus there is no danger from leaving the 
pitch-garlards and iron-pans to burn out of themselves. AH 
is therefore in flame through the whole night.— Author't 
Note. 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


suppressed voice, ' so taat the crowd may come 
and help you, for you dare not stand single 
handed against me ! Before they bind ray 
hands you will be a dead man !” 

He offered me a pistol. “ Come, tight with 
me, or 1 shall become your murderer !” aqd, so 
saying, he drew me forth with him. I took the 
pistol which he had offered to defend myself 
from him. 

“She loves you,” whispered he ; “and, in 
your vanity, you will parade it before all the 
Roman people, before me, whom you have de- 
ceived with false, hypocritical speeches, al- 
though I never gave you cause to do so.” 

“You are ill, Bernardo,” I exclaimed; “you 
are mad ; do not come too near me.” 

He threw himself upon me. I thrust him 
back. At that moment I heard a report ; my 
hand trembled ; all was in smoke around me, 
but t strangely deep sigh, a shriek it could not 
be called, reached my ear, my heart ! My pis- 
tol had gone off; Bernardo lay before me in his 
blood. 

I stood there like a sleep-walker, and held the 
pistol grasped in my hand. It was not till I 
perceived the voices of the people of the house 
around me, and heard Annunciata exclaim, 
“Jesus Maria!” and saw her and the old lady 
before me, that I was conscious of the whole 
misfortune. 

“Bernardo!” I cried in despair, and would 
have flung myself on his body ; but Annunciata 
lay on her knees beside him, endeavouring to 
stanch the blood. 

I can see even now her pale countenance and 
the steadfast look which she riveted upon me. 
I was as if rooted to the spot where I stood. 

“Save yourself! save yourself!” cried the 
old lady, taking hold of me by the arm. 

“I am innocent !” I exclaimed, overcome by 
anguish, “Jesus Maria! I am innocent! He 
would have killed me ; he gave me the pistol, 
which went off by accident !” and that which I 
perhaps otherwise should not have dared to say 
aloud I revealed in my despair. “Yes, Annun- 
ciata, we loved thee. For thy sake would I 
die, like him ! Which of us two was the dear- 
er to thee 1 Tell me, in my despair, whether 
thou lovest me, and then will I escape.” 

“Away!” stammered she, making a sign 
with her hand, whilst she was busied about the 
tlead. 

“ Fly !” jcried the old lady. 

“ Annunciata,” besought I, overcome with 
misery, “ which of us two was the dearer to 
thee 1” 

She bowed her head down to the dead ; I 
heard her weeping, and saw her press her lips 
to Bernardo’s brow. 

“ The gens d'armes /” cried some one just by 
me. “ Fly, fly !” and, as if by invisible hands, 
T. was torn out of the house. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE PEASANTS OF ROCCA DEL PAPA THE ROB- 
BERS’ CAVE THE PARC^E OF MY LIFE. 

* She loves Bernardo !” rung in my heart : 
it was the arrow of death which poisoned my 
whole blood, which drove me onward, and 
silenced even tire voice which cried within me, \ 

H 


t 57 

“Thou hast murdered thy friend and broth- 
er !” 

I instinctively rushed through bushes and 
underwood, climbing over the stone walls 
which fenced in the vineyards on the hill-side. 
The cupola of St. Peter’s lit up the atmosphere 
to a great distance : thus shone forth the altai 
of Cain and Abel, when the murderer fled. 

For many hours, I wandered uninterruptedly 
forwards ; nor did I pause, until I reached the 
yellow Tiber, which cut off my farther prog- 
ress. From Rome onwards, down to the Med- 
iterranean, no bridge was to be met with, nor 
even a boat, which could have conveyed me 
over. This unexpected impediment was as 
the stab of a knife, which, for a moment, cut 
in sunder the worm that gnawed at my heart ; 
but it speedily grew together again, and I felt 
that my whole misfortune was twofold. 

Not many paces from me I perceived the 
ruins of a tomb, larger in circumference, but 
more desolate, than that in which I had lived 
as a child with the old Domenica. Three 
horses were tied to on^of the overturned 
blocks of stone, and \v0b feeding from the 
bundles of hay which were fastened to their 
necks. 

A wide opening led, by a few deep steps, into 
the vault of the tomb, within which a fire was 
burning. Two strong-built peasants, wrapped 
in their sheep-skin cloaks, with the wool out- 
wards, and in large boots and pointed hats, in 
which was fastened a picture of the Virgin, 
stretched themselves before the fire, and smo- 
ked with their short pipes. A shorter figure, 
wrapped in a large grey cloak, and with a 
broad, slouching hat, leaned against the wall, 
while he drank from a flask of wine to a fare- 
well and a happy meeting. Scarcely had I con- 
templated the whole group, before I was my* 
self discovered. They snatched up their weap- 
ons which lay beside them, as if they appre- 
hended a surprise, and stepped hastily towards 
me. 

“ What do you seek for here l” they asked. 

“ A boat to take me across the Tiber,” I re- 
plied. 

“ You may look for that a long time,” they 
returned. “ Here is neither bridge nor boat, 
unless folks bring them with them.” 

“ But,” began one of them, while he survey- 
ed me from top to toe, “ you are come a long 
way out of the highroad, signore, and it is not 
safe out o’ nights. Caesar’s band may still have 
long roots, although the holy father has been 
using the spade, till he has perhaps worked his 
own hand off.” 

“You should, at least,” remarked another, 
“ have taken some arms with you. See what 
we have done — a threefold charge in the gun, 
and a pistol in the belt, lest the piece should 
miss fire.” * 

“Yes, and I have also taken a good little 
caseknife with me,” said the first speaker, and 
drew out of his belt a sharp and bright knife, 
with which he played in his hand. 

“ Stick it again in its sheath, Emidio,” said 
the second ; “ the strange gentleman gets quite 
pale : he is a young man who cannot bear such 
sharp weapons. The first, best villain will get 
from him his few scudi— us he would not so 
easily manage. Do you see 1” said the fellow 


59 


THE IMPROVISATORE 


% 

to me ; ‘‘‘give us your money to keep, and so 
it will be quite safe.”. 

“ All that I have you can take,” replied I, 
weary of life, and obtuse from suffering ; “ but 
no great sum will you get.” 

It was evident to me in what company I now 
found myself. I quickly felt in my pocket, in 
which I knew there to be two scudi ; but, to 
my astonishment, found there a purse. I drew 
it forth : it was of woman’s work ; I had seen 
it before, in the hands of the old lady at An- 
nunciata’s : she must have thrust it into my 
pocket, at the last moment, that I might have 
spare money for ‘my unhappy flight. They 
snatched all three at the full purse ; and I 
shook out its contents upon the flat stone be- 
fore the fire. 

“ Gold and silver !” cried they, as they saw 
the white louis-d’or shining among the pias- 
tres. “ It would have been a sin if the beauti- 
ful souls had fallen into robbers’ hands.” 

“ Kill me now,” said I, “ if such be your in- 
tention ; so there may be an end of my suffer- 
ings.” 

“ Madonna mia !” Ik claimed the first, “ what 
do you take us fori We are honest peasants 
from Rocca del Papa. We kill no Christian 
brother. Drink a glass of wine with us, and 
tell us what compels you to this journey.” 

“ That remains my secret,” said I, and ea- 
gerly took the wine which they offered to me 
for my lips burned for a refreshing draught. 

They whispered to each other ; and then the 
man in the broad hat rose up, nodded familiarly 
to the others, looked jestingly into my face, and 
said, “ You’ll pass a cold night after the warm, 

. merry evening !” He went out, and we soon 
heard him galloping. 

“You wish to go over the Tiber 1” said one : 

‘ if you will not go with us, you will have to 
wait a long time. Seat yourself behind me on 
my horse, for to swim after its tail would not 
* be much to your liking.” 

Secure I was not in this place : I felt my 
home was with the outlawed. The fellow as- 
sisted me upon a strong fiery horse, and then 
placed himself before me. 

“ Let me fasten this cord around you,” said 
the fellow, “ or else you may slip off, and not 
find the ground.” He then threw a cord fast 
round my back and arms, flinging it round him- 
self at the same time, so that we sat back to 
back : it was not possible for me to move my 
hands. The horse advanced slowly into the 
water, trying every step before he took it. 
Presently the water reached the saddle-bow ; 
but, labouring powerfully, he gained at length 
the opposite shore. As soon as we had reach- 
ed this, the fellow loosened the cord which 
bound me to him, yet only to secure my hands 
still n^ore firmly to the girths. 

“You might fall off and break your neck,” 
said he. “ Hold only fast, for now we cut 
across the Campagna.” 

He struck his heels into the sides of the 
horse ; the other did the same ; and away they 
sped, like well-accustomed horsemen, over the 
great desolate plain. I held myself fast, both 
with hands and feet. The wind caught up the 
fellow’s long, black hair, which flapped upon 
my cheeks. We sped on past the fallen grave- 
stones : I saw the ruined aqueduct, and the 


moon which, red as blood, rose upon the hori. 
zon, whilst light, white mists flew past us. 

That I had killed Bernardo — was separated 
from Annunciata and my home, and now, in 
wild flight, bound upon the ho?se of a robber, 
was speeding across the Campagna — seemed 
all to me a dream, a horrible dream ! Would 
that I might speedily awake, and see these im- 
ages of terror dissipate themselves ! I closed 
my eyes firmly, and felt only the cold wind 
from the mountains blowing upon my cheek. 

“ Now we shall be soon under grandmother’s 
petticoat,” said the rider when we approached 
the mountains. “Is it not a good horse winch 
we have 1 Then it lias also had this year St. 
Antonio’s blessing : my fellow decked him out 
with bunches of silken ribands, opened the 
Bible before him, and sprinkled him with holy 
water ; and no devil, or evil eye, can have jtry 
influence on him this year.” 

Daylight began to dawm on the horizon when 
we reached the mountains. 

“ It begins to get light,” said the other rider, 

“ and the signore’s eyes may suffer : I will 
give him a parasol and with that he threw a 
cloth over my head, which he bound so fast, 
that I had not the slightest glimmering of sight 
My hands w r ere bound : I w^as thus entirely 
their captive, and, in my distress of mind, sub- 
mitted to everything. 

I observed that we w r ere ascending for some 
time : then we rapidly descended again ; twigs 
and bushes struck me in the face ; we were 
upon an altogether unused path. At length I 
was made to dismount : they conducted me 
forwards, but not a word w r as said : at length 
we descended one step through a narrow open- 
ing. My soul had been too much occupied with 
itself for me to remark in what direction we 
had entered the mountains ; yet we could not 
have gone very deep into them. It was not till 
many years afterwards that the place became 
known to me : many strangers have visited it, 
and many a painter has represented on can- 
vass its character and colouring. We w T ere at 
the old Tusculum. Behind Frascati, where 
the sides of the hills are covered with chestnut 
woods and lofty laurel hedges, lie these ruins 
of antiquity. Tall white thorns and wild roses 
shoot up from the steps of the amphitheatre. 
In many places of the mountains are deep 
caves, hrick-work vaults, almost concealed by 
a luxuriant growth of grass and underwood. 
Across the valley may be seen the lofty hills ot 
Abruzzi, which bound the Marshes, and w r hich 
give to the whole landscape a character of 
great wildness, that here, amid the ruins of a 
city of antiquity, is doubly impressive. They 
conducted me through one of these openings 
in the mountain, half concealed with depending 
evergreen and twining plants. At length we 
came to a stand. I heard a low whistle ; and, 
immediately afterwards, the sound of a trap- 
door, or door which opened. We again de- 
scended some steps deeper, and I now heard 
several voices. The cloth was removed from 
my eyes, and I found myself in a spacious 
vault. Large-limbed men, in sheepskin cloaks* 
like my conductors, sat and played at cards 
around a long tahle, rrpon which burned two 
brass lamps, with many wicks, which strongly 
lighted up their dark expressive countenances. 


i 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 




Before them stood wine in great bottles. My 
arrival excited no astonishment : they made 
room for me at the table, gave me a cup of 
wine, and a piece of their sausage, keeping up 
a conversation, in the meantime, in a dialect 
which I did not understand ; which seemed 
however to have no reference to Hie. 

I felt no hunger, but only a burning thirst, 
and drank the wine. I cast my eyes around 
me, and saw that the walls were covered with 
arms and articles of clothing. In one corner 
of the vault was a still deeper apartment. 
From its roof depended two hares, which were 
partly skinned, and beneath these I perceived 
yet another being. A meagre old woman, with 
a singular, almost youthful bearing, sat there 
immovably, and spun flax upon a hand-spindle. 
Her silver-white hair had loosened itself from 
the knot into which it had been fastened, and 
hung down over one cheek, and round her yel- 
low brown neck, and her dark eye was stead- 
fastly fixed upon the spindle. She was the liv- 
ing image of one of the Parcae. Before her 
feet lay a quantity of burning woodashes, as if 
they were a magical circle which separated her 
from this world. 

I did not long remain left to myself. They 
commenced a sort of examination of me, of my 
* condition in life, and of every thing connected 
with my circumstances and family. I declared 
to them that they had already had all that I 
possessed, and that nobody in Rome, if they 
demanded a ransom for me, would give as 
much as a scudo, and that I was a poor bird, 
which, for a long time, had the intention of 
going to Naples, to try my talents as an im- 
provisatore. I concealed not from them the 
peculiar ground of my flight, the unfortunately 
accidental going off of the piece, yet without 
explaining the immediate circumstances of it. 

“ The only ransom which you are likely to 
obtain for me,” added I, “ is the sum which the 
law will give you for delivering me up. Do it ; 
for I myself, at this moment, have no higher 
wish!” 

“ That’s a merry wish !” said one of the men. 
“ You have perhaps, however, in Rome, a little 
girl who w T ould give her gold ear-rings for your 
liberty. You can, however, improvise at Na- 
ples ; w r e are the men to get you over the bar- 
riers. Or the ransom shall be the earnest mon- 
ey of our brotherhood ; so here is my hand ! 
You are among honourable fellows, you shall 
see ! But sleep now, and think of it after- 
wards. Here is a bed, and you shall have a 
coverlet wiiich has proved the winter’s blast, 
and the sirocco rain — my brown cloak there on 
the hook.” 

e threw it to me, pointed to the straw mat 
a ie end of the table, and left me, singing as 
h< .vent the Albanian folks’ song, “ Disce?idi, 
o mia bettina /” * 

I threw myself down on the couch, without 
a thought of repose. All that which had so 
agitated my soul seemed to me like a dream ; 
but the place in which I was, and the dark 
countenances around me, told me immediately 
that my recollections were reality. 

A stranger, with pistols in his girdle, and a 
long grey cloak thrown loosely over his shoul- 
der, sat astride on the bench, and was in deep 
conversation with the other robbers. In the 


corner of the vault sat yet the old Mulatto-col- 
oured wrnman, and twirled her spindle immo- 
vably as ever, a picture painted on a dark back- 
ground. Fresh-burning wood was laid on the 
floor before her, and gave out w r armth. 

“ The ball w r ent through his side,” I heard 
the stranger say ; “ he lost some blood, but, in 
a few moments, he is again recovered.” 

“ Ei, Signore,” cried my horseman, as he 
again saw me awake ; “a twelve-hours’ sleep 
is a good pillow ! Nay, Gregorio brings news 
from Rome which wall certainly please you ! 
You have trodden heavily on the train of the 
Senate ! Yes ; it is actually you ! All the cir- 
cumstances agree together. You have actual- 
ly shot the nephew of the senator ! That was 
a bold shot !” 

“Is he dead I” wore the only words I could 
stammer forth. 

“No, not entirely!” replied the stranger, 
“ and perhaps may not die this time. At least 
the doctors say so. The foreign handsome sig- 
nora, who sings like a nightingale, watched 
through the whole night by his bed, till the doc- 
tors assured her that he must be kept quiet, 
and that danger was over.” 

“You missed your mark,” exclaimed the 
other, “ both in regard to his heart and hers ! 
Let the bird fly, they’ll make a pair, and you 
stop with us. Our life is merry and free. You 
may become a little prince ; and the danger of 
it is no greater than hangs over every crown. 
Wine you shall have, and adventures and hand- 
some girls for the one which ha,s jilted you. 
Better is it to drink of life in copious draughts 
than to sip it up by drops.” 

“ Bernardo lives ! I am not his murderer !” 
This thought gave new life to my soul ; but my 
distress on account of Annunciata could not be 
alleviated. Calmly and resolutely I replied to 
the man, that they could deal with me as they 
liked, but that my nature, my whole education, 
my intentions in life, forbade me to form any 
such connexion with him as he proposed. 

“ Six hundred scudi is the lowest sum for 
which we will liberate you !” said the man, 
with a gloomy earnestness. “ If these are not 
forthcoming in six days, then you are ours, 
either dead or alive ! Your handsome face, 
my kindness towards you, will avail nothing ! 
Without the six hundred scudi you will only 
have your choice between brotherhood with us, 
or brotherhood with the many who lie arm in 
arm, embracing in the well below. Write to 
your friend, or to the handsome singer ; they 
must both of them be grateful to you at bottom, 
for you have brought about an explanation be- 
tween them. They will certainly pay this mis- 
erable sum for you. We have never let any 
body go so cheaply out of our inn before. Only 
think,” added he, laughing, “ your coming here 
cost you nothing ; and now, board and lodging 
for a whole six days, nobody can say that it is 
unreasonable.” 

My answer remained the same. 

“ Perverse fellow !” said he. “Yet I like it 
in thee ; that I will say, even if I have to put a 
bullet through thy heart. Our jolly life must, 
however, captivate a young spirit ; and thou, a 
poet, an improvisatore, and not charmed with 
a bold flight ! Now, if I had desired thee to 
sing ‘ The Proud Strength among the Rocks/ 


60 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


must not thou have praised and cried up this 
life, which thou seemest to despise 1 Drink of 
the cup, and let us hear your art. You shall 
describe to us that which I have just said — the 
proud struggle which the mountains see ; and, 
if you do it like a master, why, then, I’ll ex- 
tend your time yet one day longer.” 

He reached to me a cithern from the wall ; 
the robbers gathered around me, demanding 
that I should sing. 

I bethought myself for some moments. I 
was to sing of the woods, of the rocks — I who, 
in reality, had never been amid them. My 
journey the night before had been made with 
bandaged eyes, and, during my abode in Rome, 
I had visited only the pine- woods of the Villa 
Borghese and the Villa Pamfili. Mountains 
had, indeed, occupied me as a child, but only 
as seen from the hut of Domenica. The only 
time in which I had been amongst them was on 
that unfortunate going to the flower-feast at 
Gensano. The darkness and stillness of the 
woods lay in the picture which my memory re- 
tained of our ramble under the lofty plantains 
by Lake Nemi, where we bound garlands that 
evening. I again saw all this, and ideas awoke 
in my soul. All these images passed before 
me in one-half of the time which it requires me 
to speak of them. 

I struck a few accords, and the thoughts be- 
came words, and the words billowy verse. I 
described the deep calm, shut in among woods, 
and the cliffs which reared themselves high 
amid the clouds. In the nest of the eagle sat 
the mother-bird, and taught her young ones the 
strength of their pinions and the practice of 
their keen gaze, by bidding them look at the 
sun. “You are the king of birds,” said she ; 
“ sharp is your eye, strong are your talons. 
Flv forth from your mother ; my glance will 
follow you, and my heart will sing like the voice 
of the swan when death embraces her. Sing 
will I of ‘proud strength!’ And tke young 
ones flew from the nest. The one flew only 
to the next peak of the cliff and sat still, with 
his eye directed to the beams of the sun, as if 
he would drink in its flames ; but the other 
swung itself boldly, in great circles, high above 
the cliff and the deep-lying lake. The surface 
of the water mirrored the woody margin and 
the blue heaven. A huge fish lay still, as if he 
had been a reed which floated on its surface. 
Like a lightning flash darted the eagle down 
upon its prey, struck its sharp talons in its 
back, and the heart of the mother trembled for 
joy. But the fish and the bird were of equal 
strength. The sharp talon was too firmly fixed 
to be again withdrawn, and a contest began 
which agitated the quiet lake in great circles. 
For a moment, and it was again calm ; the 
huge wings iay outspread upon the waters, like 
the leaves of the lotus-flower ; again they flut- 
tered aloft ; a sudden crack was heard — one 
wing sunk down, whilst the other lashed the 
lake into foam, and then vanished. The fish 
and the bird sank into the deep water. Then 
was sent forth the lamenting cry of the mother, 
and she turned again her eye upon the second 
son, which had rested above upon the cliff, and 
he was not there ; but far away, in the direc- 
tion of the sun, she saw a dark speck ascend- 
ing and vanishing in his beams. Her heart 


was agitated with joy, and she sang of tne 
proud strength which only became great by the 
lofty object for which it strove !” 

My song was at an end • a loud burst of ap- 
plause saluted me, but my eye was arrested by 
the old woman. In the midst of my song I had 
indeed observed that she let the hand-spindle 
drop, riveted upon me a keen, dark glance, 
which made it exactly seem to me as if the 
scene of my childhood, which I had described 
in my song, again was renewed. She now 
raised herself up. and, advancing to me with 
quickening steps, exclaimed, 

“ Thou hast sung thy ransom ! the sound of 
music is stronger than that of gold ! I saw the 
lucky star in thy eye when the fish and the bird • 
went down into the deep .abyss to die ! Fly 
boldly towards the sun, my bold eagle ! the old 
one sits in her nest and rejoices in thy flight. 
No one shall bind thy wings !” 

“ Wise Fulvia !” said the robber who had re- 
quired me to sing, and who now bowed with 
an extraordinary gravity to the old woman, 
“ dost thou know the signore 1 Hast thou 
heard him improvise before nowl” 

“ I have seen the star in his eye — seen the 
invisible glory which beamed around the child 
of fortune ! He wove his garland ; he shall 
weave one still more beautiful, but with un- 
bound hands. Dost thou think of shooting 
down my young eagle in six days, because he 
will not fix his claws into the back of the fish 1 
Six days he shall remain here in the nest, and 
then he shall fly towards the sun !” 

She now opened a little cupboard in the wall, 
and took out paper, upon which she was about 
to write. 

“The ink is hard,” said she, “like the dry 
rock ; but thou hast enough of the black moist- 
ure ; scratch thy hand, Cosmo, the old Fulvia 
thinks also on thy happiness !” 

Without saying a word, the robber took his 
knife, and, putting aside the skin, wetted the 
pen with the blood. The old woman gave it 
to me to write the words,. “I travel to Na- 
ples !” 

“ Thy name under it !” said she ; “ that is a 
papal seal !” 

“ What is the meaning of this 1” I heard one 
of the younger men say, as he cast an angry 
glance at the old woman. 

“Does the worm talk'?” said she; “de- 
fend thyself from the broad foot that crushes 
thee !” 

. “We confide in thy prudence, wise mother.,” 
rejoined one of the elder ones ; “ thy will is the 
tabernacle of blessing and good luck !” 

• No more was said. 

The former lively state of feeling returned ; 
the wine-flask circulated. They slapped me 
familiarly on the shoulder ; gave me the best 
pieces f>f the venison which was served up ; 
but the old woman sat, as before, immovably at 
work with her hand-spindle, whilst one of the 
younger men laid fresh ashes at her feet, say- 
ing, “ Thou art cold, old mother !” 

From their conversation, ?md from the name 
by which they had addressed her, I now dis- 
covered that she it was who had told my for- 
tune, as a child, when I, with my mother and 
Mariuccia, wove garlands by Lake Nemi. I 
felt that my fate lay in her hand ; she* had 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


61 


made me write, “ I travel to Naples !” That 
was my own desire ; but how was I to get 
across the barrier without a passport 1 how 
was I to maintain myself in this foreign city, 
where I knew no one 1 To make my debut as 
an improvisatore, whilst I was a fugitive from 
a neighbouring city, was a thing I dared, not to 
do. My power of language, however, and a 
singular childish reliance on the Madonna, 
strengthened my soul; even the thought of 
Annunciata, which dissolved into a strange 
melancholy, brought peace to my soul — a 
peace like that which descends upon the sea- 
man, when, after his ship is gone down, he 
alone is driven in a little boat towards an un- 
known! shore. 

One day after another glided on ; the men 
came and went, and even Fulvia w'as absent 
for one whole day, and I was alone in the cave 
with one of the robbers. 

This was a young man of about one-and- 
twenty, of ordinary features, but with a re- 
markably melancholy expression, which almost 
bordered on insanity ; this, and his beautiful 
long hair, which fell upon his shoulders, char- 
acterized his exterior. He sat silent for a long 
time, with his head sunk upon his arm. At 
length he tu'rned himself to me and said, “ Thou 
canst read : read me a prayer out of this book !” 
and with that he gave me a little prayer-book. 

I read, and the most heart-felt devotion beamed 
in his large, dark eyes. 

“ Why wilt thou leave us 1” asked he, offer- 
ing me his hand good-naturedly ; “ perjury and 
falsehood dwell in the city as in the wood ; 
only in the wood one has fresh air and fewer 
people.” 

A sort of confidential feeling arose between 
us ; and whilst I shuddered at his wild manner, 

I was touched by his unhappiness. 

“ Thou knowest, perhaps,” Scfid he, “ the le- 
gend of the Prince of Savelli 1 of the gay wed- 
ding at Ariccial It w T as, to be sure, only a 
poor peasant and a simple country girl, but she 
was handsome, and it was her wedding. The 
rich lord of Savelli gave a dance in honour of 
the bride, and sent her an invitation to his 
garden ; but she revealed it to her bridegroom, 
who dressed himself in her clothes, and put on 
her bridal veil, and went instead of her, and 
then, when the count w r ould have pressed her 
to his breast, a dagger w T as driven into his 
noble heart. I knew a count and a bride- 

f room like these, only the bride was not so 
pen-hearted : the rich count celebrated the 
bridal night, and the bridegroom the feast of 
death with her. Her bosom shone like snow 
when the pale knife found its way to her 
heart !” 

• 

• I looked silently into his face, and had not 
a word wherewith to express my sympathy. 

“Thou thinkest that I never knew love — 
never, like the bee, drank from the fragrant 
oup !” exclaimed he. t4r There travelled a 
high-born English lady to Naples ; she had a 
handsome serving-maid with her — health on 
her cheeks, and fire in her eyes ! My com- 
rades compelled them all to dismount from the 
carriage, and to sit in silence on the ground 
whilst they plundered it. The two women, 
and a young man, the lover of one I fancy he 
was, we took up among the hills. By the time ! 


that the ransom came for all three the girfs 
red 'checks were gone, and her eyes burned 
less brightly : that came from so much wood 
among the hills !” 

I turned myself from him, and, as if half to 
excuse himself, he added, “The girl was a 
Protestant, a daughter of Satan !” 

In the evening Fulvia returned, and gave 
me a letter which she commanded me not to 
read. 

“ The mountains have their white caps on ; 
it is time to fly away. Eat and drink, we have • 
a long journey before us, and there grow no 
cakes upon the naked rocky path.” 

The young robber placed food on the table 
in haste, of which I partook, and then Fulvia 
threw a cloak over her shoulders, and hurried 
me along through dark, excavated passages. 

“ In the letter lie thy wings,” said she, “ not 
a soldier on the barrier shall ruffle a feather of 
thine, my young eagle ! The wishing-rod also 
lies beside it, which will afford thee gold and 
silver till thou hast fetched up thy own treas- 
ures.” 

She now divided, with her naked, thin arm, 
the thick ivy, which hung like a curtain before 
the entrance to the cavern : it was dark night 
without, and a thick mist enwrapt the mount- 
ains. I held fast by her dress, and scarcely 
could keep up with her quick steps along the 
untrodden path in the dark : like a spirit she 
went forward; bushes and hedges were left 
behind us on either hand. 

Our march had continued for some time, and 
we were now in a narrow valley between the 
mountains. Not far from us stood a straw hut, 
one of those which is met with in the Marshes, 
without walls, and with its roof of reeds doWn 
to the ground. Light shone from a chink in its 
low door. We entered, and found ourselves 
as if in a great bee-hive, but all around was 
quite black from the smoke, which had no oth- 
er exit than through the low door. Pillars and 
beams, nay, even the reeds themselves, were 
shining with the soot. In the middle of the 
floor was an elevation of brick- work, a few ells 
long, and probably half as broad ; on this lay a 
fire of wood ; here the food was cooked, and 
by this means, also, the hut was warmed. Fur- 
ther back was an opening in the wall, which 
led to a smaller hut, which was attached to the 
gi eater, just as one sees a small onion grow 
to the mother-bulb ; within this lay a woman 
sleeping, with several children. An ass poked 
forth his head from above them and looked on 
us. An old man, almost naked, with a ragged 
pair of drawers on made of goat-skin, came to- 
wards us ; he kissed Fulvia’s hands, and with- 
out a word being exchanged, he threw his 
woollen skin over his naked shoulders, drew 
forth the ass, and made a sign for me to mount. 

“ The horse of fortune will gallop better than 
the ass of the Campagna,” said Fulvia. 

The peasant led the ass and me out of the 
hut. My heart was deeply moved with grati- 
tude to the singular old woman, find 1 bent 
down to kiss her hand ; but she shook her head, 
and then, stroking the hair back from my fore- 
head, I felt her cold kiss, saw her once more mo- 
tioning with her hand, ai d the twigs and hedges 
hid us from each other The peasant struck 


62 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


✓ 


the ass, and then ran on beside him up the 
path : I spoke to him ; he uttered a low sound, 
and gave me, by a sign, to understand that he 
was dumb. My curiosity to read the letter 
which Fulvia had given me let me have no rest ; 

I therefore drew it out and opened it. It con- 
sisted of various papers, but the darkness for- 
bade me to read a single word, however much 
I strained my eyes. 

When the day dawned, we were upon the 
ridges of the mountains, where alone was to 
be seen naked granite, with a few creeping 
plants, and the grey-green fragrant artemisia. 
The heavens were quite clear, scattered over 
with shining stars ; a sea-like cloud world lay 
below us, it was the Marshes which stretched 
themselves out from the mountains of Albano, 
between Yeletri and Terracina, bounded by 
Abruzzi and the Mediterranean Sea. The low, 
wavy clouds of mist shone below us, and I 
quickly saw how the infinitely blue heaven 
changed to lilac, and then into rose colour, and 
the • mountains even became like bright blue 
velvet. I was dazzled with the pomp of col- 
ouring ; a fire burned upon the side of the 
mountain, which shone like a star upon the 
light ground. I folded my hands in prayer ; 
my head bowed itself before God in the great 
church of nature, and silently besought, “ Let 
thy will be done !” 

The daylight was now sufficiently clear for 
me to see what my letter contained ; it was a 
passport in my own name, prepared by the Ro- 
man police, and signed by the Neapolitan am- 
bassador — an order on the house of Falconet, 
in Naples, for five hundred scudi, and a small 
note containing the words, “ Bernardo’s life is 
out of danger ; but do not return to Rome for 
gome months.” 

Fulvia said justly that here were my wings 
and wishing-rod. I was free, a sigh of grati- 
tude arose from my heart. 

We soon reached a more trodden path, where 
some shepherds were sitting at their breakfasts. 
My guide stopped here ; they seemed to know 
him, and he made them understand, by signs 
with his fingers, that they should invite us to 
partake of their meal, which consisted of bread 
and buffalo cheese, to which they drank asses’ 
milk. I enjoyed some mouthfuls, and felt my- 
self strengthened thereby. 

My guide now shewed me a path, and the 
others explained to me that it led down the 
mountains along the Marshes to Terracina, 
which I could reach before evening. I must 
continually keep this path to the left of the 
mountahis, which would, in a few hours, bring 
me to a canal, which went from the mountains 
to the great highroad, the boundary trees of 
which I should see as soon as the mist cleared 
away. JBy following the canal, I should come 
but upon the highroad, just beside a ruined con- 
vent, where now stood an inn, called torre di 
tre ponti. 

Gladly would I have bestowed upon my guide 
a little gift ; but I had nothing. It then oc- 
curred to* me that I still had, however, the two 
scudi, which were in my pocket when I left 
Rome ; 1 had only given up the purse with the 
money which I had received as needful in my 
flight. Two scudi were thus, for the moment, 1 
all my ready money ; the one I would give to 


my guide, the other I must keep for my own 
wants till I reached Naples, where I could only 
avail myself of my bill. I felt in my pocket, 
but vain was all my search ; they had long ago 
taken from me all my little property. I had 
nothing at all : I therefore took off the silk- 
handkerchief which I had round my neck, and 
gave it to the man, offered my hand to the oth- 
ers, and struck alone into the path which led 
down to the Marshes. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE PONTINE MARSHES TERRACINA AN OLD 

ACQUAINTANCE FRA DIAVOLO’s NATIVE CITY 

THE ORANGE-GARDEN AT MOLO DI GAETA THE 

NEAPOLITAN SIGNORA — NAPLES. 

Many people imagine that the Pontine 
Marshes are only a dreary extent of stagnant, 
slimy water, a melancholy road to travel over: 
on the contrary, the marshes have more re- 
semblance to the rich plains of Lombardy ; yes, 
they are like them, rich to abundance ; grass 
and herbage grow here with a succulence and 
a luxuriance which the north of Italy caifnot 
exhibit. 

Neither can any road be more excellent than 
that which leads through the marshes, upop 
which, as on a bowling-green, the carriages 
roll along ^between unending alleys of lime- 
trees, whose thick branches afford a shade 
from the scorching beams of the sun. On 
each side the immense plain stretches itself 
out with its tall grass, and its fresh, green 
marsh-plants. Canals cross one another, and 
drain off the water which stands in ponds and 
lakes covered with reeds and broad-leaved 
water-lilies. 

On the left hand, in coming from Rome, the 
lofty hills of*Abruzzi extend themselves, with 
here and there small towns, which, like mount- 
ain castles, shine with their white walls from 
the grey rocks. On the right, the green plain 
stretches down to the sea, wffiere Cape Ciceilo 
lifts itself, now a promontory, but formerly 
Circe’s Island, where tradition lands Ulysses. 

As I went along, the mists, which began to 
dissipate, floated over the green extent where 
the canals shone like linen on a bleaching- 
ground. The sun glowed with the warmth of 
summer, although it was but the middle of 
March. Herds of buffaloes went through the 
tall grass. A troop of horses galloped wikffy 
about, and struck out with their hind feet, so 
that the water w r as dashed around to a*great 
height ; their bold attitudes, their unconstrain- 
ed leaping and gambolling, might have been a 
study for an animal-painter. To the- left I saw 
a dark monstrous column of smoke, which as- 
cended from the great fire which the shepherds 
had kindled to purify the air around their huts. 
I met a peasant, whose pale, yellow, sickly 
exterior contradicted the vigorous fertility 
which the marshes presented. Like a dead 
man arisen from the grave, he rode upon his 
black horse, and held a sort of lance in his 
hand, with which he drove together the buffa- 
loes which went into the swampy mire, where 
some of them lay themselves down, and 
stretched forth only their dark ugly heads with 
their malicious eyes. 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


I he solitary post-houses, of three or four 
b lories high, which were erected close by the 
road-side, showed also, at the first glance, the 
poisonous effluvia which steamed up from the 
marshes. The lime-washed walls were en- 
tirely covered with an unctuous, grey-green 
mould. Buildings, like human beings, bore 
here the stamp of corruption, which showed it- 
self in strange contrast with the rich luxuri- 
ance around, with the fresh verdure, and the 
warm sunshine. 

My sickly soul presented to me here in na- 
ture an image of the false happiness of life ; 
thus people almost always see the world 
through the spectacles of feeling, and it ap- 
pears dark or rose-coloured according to the 
hue bf the glass through which they look. 

About an hour before the Ave Maria I left 
the marshes behind me ; the mountains, with 
their yellow masses of rock, approached nearer 
and nearer, and close before me stood Terra- 
cina in the fertile, Hesperian landscape. Three 
lofty palm-trees, with their fruit, grew not far 
from the road. The vast orchards, which 
stretched up the mountain-sides, seemed like 
a great green carpet with millions of golden 
points. Lemons and oranges bowed the branch- 
es down to the ground. Before a peasant’s 
hut lay a quantity of .lemons, piled together 
into a heap, as if they had been chestnuts which 
had been shaken down. Rosemary and wild 
dark red gillyflowers grew abundantly in the 
crevices of the rock, high up among the peaks 
of the cliffs where stood the magnificent re- 
mains of the castle of the Ostrogothic king 
Theodoric,* and which overlook the city and 
the whole surrounding country. 

My eyes were dazzled with the beautiful 
picture, and, quietly dreaming, I entered Ter- 
racina. Before me lay the sea, which I now 
beheld for the first time — the wonderfully 
beautiful Mediterranean. It was heaven itself 
in the purest ultra-marine, which, like an im- 
mense plain, was spread out before me. Far 
out at sea I saw islands, like floating clouds of 
the most beautiful lilac colour, and perceived 
Vesuvius where the dark column of smoke be- 
came blue* m <he far horizon. The surface of 
the sea seemed perfectly still, yet the lofty bil- 
lows, as blue and clear as the ether itself, 
broke against the shore on which I stood, and 
sounded like thunder among the mountains. 

My eye was riveted like my foot ; my whole 
soul breathed rapture. It seemed as if that 
which was*physical within me, heart and blood, 
became spirit, and infused itself into it, that it 
might float forth between these two, the infi- 
nite sea and the heaven above it. Tears* 
streamed down my cheeks, and I was com- 
pelled to weep like a child. 

Not far from the place where I stood was a 
large w T hite building, against the foundations 
of which the waves broke. Its lowest story, 
which lay to the street, consisted of an open 
colonnade, within which stood the carriages 
of travellers. It was the hotel of Terracina, 
the largest and the handsomest upon the whole 
way between Rome and Naples. 

The cracking of whips re-echoed from the 
wall of rocks ; a carriage with four horses 
rolled up to the hotel. Armed servants sat 


63 

on the seat at the back of the carriage ; a pale, 
thin gentleman, wrapped in a large bright-col- 
oured dressing-gown, stretched himself within 
it. The postillion dismounted and cracked his 
long whip several times,. whilst fresh horses 
were put to. The stranger wished to proceed, 
but as he desired to have an escort over the 
mountains where Fra Diavolo and Cesari had 
bold descendants, he was obliged to wait a 
quarter of an hour, and now scolded, half in 
English and half in Italian, at the people’s lazi 
ness, and at the torments and sufferings which 
travellers had to endure, and at length knotted 
up his pocket-handkerchief into a night-cap, 
which he drew on his head, and then throwing 
himself into a corner of the carriage, closed 
his eyes, and seemed to resign himself to his 
fate. 

I perceived that it was an Englishman, who 
already, in ten days, had travelled through the 
north and the middle of Italv, and in that time 
had made himself acquainted with this coun- 
try ; had seen Rome in one day, and was now 
going to Naples to ascend Vesuvius, and then 
by the steam-vessel to Marseilles, to gain a 
knowledge also of the south of France, which 
he hoped to do in a still shorter time. At 
length eight well-armed horsemen arrived, the 
postillion cracked his whip, and the carriage 
and the out-riders vanished through the gate 
between the tall yellow rocks. 

“ With all his escort and all his weapons, he.- 
is, however, not so safe as my strangers,” said 
a’ little, square-built fellow, who played with 
his whip. “ The English must be very fond of 
travelling ; they .always go at a gallop ; the} 
are queer birds — Santa Philomena di Napoli /” 

“ Have you many travellers in your car- 
riage 1” inquired I. 

“ A heart in every corner,” replied he ; 
“ you see that makes a good four : but in the 
cabriolet there is only one. If the Signore 
wishes to see Naples, that he can the day after 
to-morrow, while the sun still shines on Sant 
Elmo.” 

We soon agreed, and I was thus relieved 
from the embarrassment in which my entire 
want of money had placed me.* 

“ You will perhaps wish to have earnest- 
money, signore 1” asked the vetturino, and held 
out a five-paolo piece between his fingers. 

“ Reserve the place for me, with board, and 
a good bed,” replied I. “ Do we set off in the 
morning 1” 

“ Yes, if it please Saint Antonio and my hor- 
ses,” said he, “ we shall set off at three o’clock 
We shall have twice to go to the Pass-Bureau, 
and three times to be written in the papers ; 
to-morrow is our hardest day.” With these 
words he lifted his cap, and, nodding, left me. 

They shewed me to a chamber which looked 
out to the sea, where the fresh wind blew, and 
the billows heaved themselves, presenting a 
picture very dissimilar to the Campagna, and 
yet its vast extent led my thoughts to my home 
theye, and the old Domenica. It troubled me 

now that I had not visited her more industri- 


* When people travel with vetturini , they pay nothing 
beforehand ; but, on the contrary, recei* e money from 
them as an earnest that their honesty is to be relied upon. 
The vetturini also provide hoard and lodging for the whole 
journey. All these expenses are included in the agreement 
I which is then made. — Author's Note. 


* Diderik of Born. — Author's Note. 


61 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


ously ; she loved me with her entire heart, , 
and was certainly the only one who did so. ; 
Excellanza, Francesca, yes, they also had some 
affection for me, but it was of a peculiar kind. 
Benefits bound us together, and where these 
could not be mutual, there must always remain, 
between giver and receiver, a gulf, which years 
and days indeed might cover with the climb- 
ing-plants of devotion, but never could fill up. 

I thought upon Bernardo and Annunciata ; my 
lips tasted salt drops which came from my 
eyes ; or, perhaps, from the sea below' me, for 
the billows actually dashed high upon the walls. 

Next morning, before day, I rolled with the 
vetturino and his strangers away from Terra- 
cina. We drew up at the frontiers just at 
dawn. All dismounted from the carriage, while 
our passports were inspected. I now for the 
first time saw my companions properly. Among 
these wms a man of about thirty, rather bland, 
and with blue eyes, w 7 ho excited my attention ; 

I must have seen him before, but where I could 
not remember, the few words which I heard 
him speak betrayed him to be a foreigner. 

We w r ere detained a very long time by the 
passports, because most of them were in foreign 
languages, which the soldiers did not under- 
stand. In the meantime the stranger, of whom 
I have spoken, took out a book of blank paper, 
and sketched the place where we stood ; the 
two high towers by the gate, through which 
the road passed, the picturesque caves just by, 
and, in the background, the little town upon 
the mountain. 

I stepped 'nearer to him, and he turned my 
attention to the beautiful grouping of the goats 
which stood in the largest cave. At the same 
moment they sprang out ; a great bundle of 
fagots, which had lain in one of the lesser 
openings of the cave, and which served as door 
to the descent, was withdrawn, and the goats 
skipped out two and two, like the animals 
which went out of Noah's ark. A very little 
peasant lad brought up the rear ; his little 
pointed hat, round which a piece of twine was 
tied, the torn stockings, and sandals, to which 
the short, browa cloak, Which he had thrown 
around him, gave him a picturesque appear- 
ance. The goats tripped up above the cave 
among the low bushes, whilst the boy, seating 
himself upon a piece of rock which projected 
above the' cave, looked at us and the painter, 
who drew him and the whole scene. 

“ Maledetto /” we heard the vetturino exclaim, 
and saw him running towards us at full speed : 
there was something amiss about the pass- 
ports. “It was certainly with mine,” thought 
I, anxiously, and the blood mounted to my 
cheeks. The stranger scolded because of the 
ignorance of the soldiers who could not read, 
and we followed the vetturino up into one of 
the towers, where we found five or six men 
half-stretched over the table, on which our 
passports lay spread out. 

“ Who is called Frederick 1” inquired one of 
the most important-looking of the men at the 
table. 

“ That is I,” replied the stranger, “ m^ name 
is Frederick, in Italian Federigo.” 

“ Thus, then, Federigo the Sixth.” 

“ Oh, no . that is my king’s name which 
stands at the top of my passport.” 


“ Indeed !” said the man, and slowly read 
; aloud, “ ‘ Frederic Six, par la grace de Dieu 
Roi de Danemarc, des Vandales, des Gothes, 
&c.’ — But what is that!” exclaimed the man; 
“are you a Vandal 1 they are actually a bar- 
barous people V' 

“Yes,” replied the stranger, laughing; “I 
am a barbarian who am come to Italy to be 
civilised. My name stands below, it is Freder- 
ick like my king’s, Frederick, or Federigo.” 

“ Is be an Englishman 1” asked one of the 
writers. 

“ Oh, no !” replied another, “ thou confound- 
est all nations together ; tliou canst surely 
read that he is out of the north ; he is a Rus- 
sian.” 

Federigo — Denmark — the name struck my 
soul like a flash of lightning. It was, indeed, 
the friend of my childhood ; my mother’s lodg- 
er, him with whom I had been into the cata- 
combs, who had given me his beautiful silver 
watch, and drawn lovely pictures for me. 

The passport was correct, and the barrier 
soldier found it doubly so, when a paolo was 
put into his hand that he might not any longer 
detain us. 

As soon as we were out again I made myself 
known to him ; it was actually he whom I sup- 
posed our Danish Fedqrigo, who had lived with 
my mother. He expressed the most lively joy 
at again meeting with me, called me still his 
little Antonio. There were a thousand things 
to be inquired after, and mutually communica- 
ted. Fie induced my former neighbour in the 
cabriolet to exchange places with him, and we 
now sat together ; yet once more he pressed 
my hand, laughed and joked. 

I related to him in a few words the occur- 
rences of my life, from the day when I went to 
Domenica’s hut, till the time when I became 
abbe, and then, making a great leap forwards, 
without touching upon my late adventures, 
ended by shortly saying, “ I now go to Naples.” 

He remembered very well the promise which 
he had made, the last time we saw each other 
in the Campagna, to take me with him for one 
day to Rome ; but shortly after that he receiv- 
ed a letter from his native country, which 
obliged him to take the long journey home, so 
that he could not see me again. His love for 
Italy, however, in his native land, became only 
stronger every year, and at length drove him 
there again. 

“ And now, for the first time, I enjoy every 
thing properly,” said he ; “ drink in great 
draughts of the pure air, and visit again every 
spot where I was before. Here my heart’s 
fatherland beckons me here is colouring ; here 
is form. Italy is a cornucopia of blessing !” 

Time and the way flew on so rapidly in Fed- 
erigo’s society, that I marked not our long de- 
tention in the Pass-Bureau at Fondi. Fie 
knew perfectly how to seize upon the poetical- 
ly beautiful in every thing ; he became doubly 
dear and interesting to me, and was the best 
angel of consolation for my afflicted heart. 

“There lies my dirty Itri !” exclaimed he, 
and pointed to the city before us. “You would 
hardly credit it, Antonio, but in the north, 
where all the streets are so clean, and so reg- 
ular, and so precise, I have longed for a dirty 
Italian town, where there is something charac- 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


terist.ie, something just for a painter. These 
narrow, dirty streets, these grey, grimy stone 
balconies, full of stockings and shirts ; win- 
dows without regularity, one up, one down, 
some great, some small, here steps four or fivs 
ells wide leading up to a door, where the moth- 
er sits with her hand spindle : and there a lem- 
on-tree, with great yellow fruit, hanging over 
the wall. 

“ Yes, that does make a picture ! But those 
cultivated streets, where the houses stand like 
soldiers, where steps and balconies are shorn 
away, one can make nothing at all of!” 

“ Here is the native city of Fra Diavolo !” 
exclaimed those inside the carriage, as we 
rolled into the narrow, dirty Itri, which Federi- 
go found so .picturesquely beautiful. The city 
lay high upon a rock beside a deep precipice. 
The principal street was in many places only 
wide enough for one -carriage. 

The greater part of the first stories of the 
houses were without windows, and instead of 
these, a great broad doorway, through which 
one looked down as if into a dark cellar. Ev- 
ery wdiere was there a swarm of dirty children 
and women, and all reached out their hands to 
beg ; the women laughed, and the children 
screamed and made faces at us. One did not 
dare to put one’s head out of the carriage, lest 
it should get smashed between it and the pro- 
jecting houses, from which the stone balconies 
in some places hung out so far above us that 
it seemed as if we drove through an archway. 
I saw black walls on either hand, for the smoke 
found its way through the open doors up the 
sooty walls. 

“It is a glorious city!” said Federigo, and 
clapped his hands. 

“ A robber city it is,” said the vetturino , when 
we had passed through it ; “ the police compell- 
ed one half of the people to flit to quite another 
city behind the mountains, and brought in oth- 
er inhabitants, but that helped nothing. All 
runs to weed that is planted here. But then 
poor folks must live.” 

The whole neighbourhood here, upon the 
great highroad between Rome and Naples, in- 
vites to robbery. There are places of deep 
concealment on every hand, in the thick olive- 
woods, in the mountain-caves, in the walls of 
the Cyclops, and many other ruins. 

Federigo directed my attentiomto an isolated 
colossal wall overgrowm with honeysuckle and 
climbing plants. It was Cicero’s grave ! it 
was here that the dagger of the assassin struck 
the fugitive, here the lips of eloquence became 
dust. 

“The vetturino will drive us to Cicero’s villa 
in Mola di Gaeta,” said Federigo, “ it is the best 
hotel, and has a prospect which rivals that of 
Naples.” 

The form of the hills was most beautiful, the 
vegetation most luxuriant ; presently we rolled 
along an alley of tall laurels, and saw before us 
the hotel which Federigo had mentioned. The 
head-waiter stood ready with his napkin, and 
waited for us on the broad steps which were 
ornamented with busts and flowers. 

“ Excellenza, is it you 1” exclaimed he, as he 
assisted a somewhat portly lady out of the car- 
riage. 

I noticed her ; her countenance was pretty, 


65 

very pretty, and the jet-black eyes told me im- 
mediately that she was a Neapolitan. 

“Ah, yes, it is I,” replied she ; “ here am I 
come with my waiting-woman as cicisbco ; that 
is my whole train — I have not a single man- 
servant with me. What do you think of my 
courage in travelling thus from Rome to Na- 
ples !” 

She threw herself like an invalid on the sofa, 
supported her pretty cheek upon her round lit- 
tle hand, and began to study the list of .eata- 
bles. “ Brodetto, cipollette, facioli. You know 
that I cannot bear soup, else I should have a 
figure like Castello dell’ Ovo. A little animclle 
dorate, and some fennel, is enough for me ; we 
must really dine again in Santa Agatha. Ah, 
now I breathe more freely,” continued she, un- 
tying the strings of her cap, “ Now I feel my 
Neapolitan air blowing — bella Napoli /” exclaim- 
ed she, hastily opening the door of the balcony, 
wdiich looked on the sea, and spreading out her 
arms, she drank in great draughts of the fresh 
air. 

“ Can w r e already see Naples'!” inquired I. 

“ Not yet,” replied Federigo ; “ but Hespe- 
ria, Armida’s enchanted garden.” 

We went out into the balcony, wdiich was 
built of stone, and looked out over the garden. 
What magnificence ! — richer than fancy can 
create to itself! Below us was a wood of lem- 
on and orange-trees which were overladen with 
fruit ; the branches bent themselves down to 
the ground with their golden load ; cypresses 
gigantically tall as the poplars of the North of 
Italy, formed the boundary of the garden ; they 
seemed doubly dark against the clear, heaven- 
blue sea w r hich stretched itself behind them, 
and dashed its weaves above the remains of the 
baths and temples of antiquity, outside the low 
wall of the garden. Ships and boats, with great 
w r hite sails, floated into the peaceful harbour, 
around which Gaeta,* with its lofty buildings, 
stretches itself. A little mountain elevates it- 
self above the city, and this is crowned with a 
ruin. 

My eye was dazzled with the great beauty of 
the scene. 

“Do you see Vesuvius'! — How it smokes!” 
said Federigo, and pointed to the left, where 
the rocky coast elevated itself, like light clouds, 
which reposed upon the indescribably beautiful 
sea. 

With the soul of a child I gave myself up to 
the rich magnificence around me, and FqjRrig 0 
was as happy as myself. We could not re- 
sist going below under the tall orange-trees, 
and I kissed the golden fruit which hung upon 
the branches ; took from the many which lay 
on the ground, and threw them like golden balls 
up in the air, and over the sulphur-blue lake. 

“ Beautiful Italy !” shouted Federigo, tri- 
umphantly. “Yes, thus stood thy image be- 
fore me in the distant North. In my remem- 
brance blew this air which I now inspire with 
every breath I draw. I thought of thy olive- 
groves when I saw our willows ; I dreamed of 
the abundance of the oranges when I saw the 
golden apples in the peasants’ gardens beside 
the fragrant clover-field ; but the green waters 
of the Baltic never become blue lik® the beau- 

* There Aeneas buried his nurse, Cajeta, after whom 
this city is called. — Author’s Nets. 


6G 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


tiful Mediterranean ; the heavens of the North 
never become so high, so rich in colour, as the 
wann, glorious south. Its gladness was inspi- 
ration, its speech became poetry. 

'•‘What longings I had in my home !” said 
he , “ they are happier who have never seen 
Paradise, than they, who having seen it, are 
driven forth, never to return. My home is 
beautiful ; Denmark is a flowery garden, which 
can measure itself with any thing on the other 
side .the Alps ; it has beech- woods and the sea. 
But what is earthly beauty compared with 
heavenly'! Italy is the land of imagination 
and beauty ; doubly happy are they who salute 
it for the second time !” 

And he kissed, as I had done, the golden 
oranges : tears ran down his cheeks, and throw- 
ing himself on my neck, his lips burned on my 
forehead. With this my heart opened itself to 
him entirely ; he was not indeed a stranger to 
me, he was the friend of my childhood. I re- 
lated to him my life’s last great adventure, and 
felt my heart lighter by the communication, by 
speaking Annunciata’s name aloud ; by telling 
of my suffering and my misfortune, and Fede- 
rigo listened to me with the sympathy of an 
honest friend. I told him of my flight, of my 
adventure in the robber’s cave ; of Fulvia, and 
what I knew of Bernardo’s recovery. He of- 
fered me his hand with the truest friendliness, 
and looked, with his light blue eyes, sympa- 
thizingly into my soul. 

A suppressed sigh was heard close to us be- 
hind the hedge ; but the tall laurels and the 
orange-branches, bowed down with their fruit, 
concealed all ; any one might very well have 
stood there and heard every word I said : of 
that I had not thought. We turned the branch- 
es aside, and close beside us, before the en- 
trance to the ruins of Cicero’s bath, sat the 
Neapolitan Signora, bathed in tears. 

“ Ah, young gentleman,” exclaimed she ; “ I 
am entirely guiltless of this. I was sitting 
here already when you came with your friend, 
it is so charming here, and so cool. Y ou talked 
so loud, and I was in the middle of your histo- 
ry before I remarked that it was quite a private 
affair. You have affected me deeply. You 
shall have no cause to repent that I .have be- 
come privy to it ; my tongue is as dumb as the 
dead.” 

Somewhat embarrassed, I bowed before the 
strange Signora, who had thus become ac- 
quainted with my heart’s history. At length 
Federigo sought to console me by saying that 
nobody knew to what it might lead. 

“ I am,” said he, “ a real Turk in my reli- 
ance on fate ; besides, after all, there are no 
state secrets in the whole of it ; every heart 
has, in its archives, such -painful memoirs. 
Perhaps it was .her own youth’s history which 
she heard in yours ; I can believe it, for people 
have seldom tears for other’s troubles, except- 
ing when they resemble their own. We are 
all egotists, even in our greatest sufferings and 
anxieties.” 

We were soon again in the carriage, rolling 
on our way. The whole country round us 
was of a luxuriant character ; the broad-leav- 
ed aloe grew close by the road to the height 
of a man, and was used as a fence. The large 
weeping willov? seemed to kiss, with its de- 


pending, ever-moving branches, its own shadow 
upon the ground. 

Towards sunset we crossed the river Gan- 
gliano, where formerly stood the old Mintura ; 
it was the yellow Liris, which I saw overgrown 
with reeds, as when Marius concealed himself 
here from the cruel Sylla. But we were yet a 
long way from Santa Agatha. 

The darkness descended, and the Signora 
became extremely uneasy on account of rob- 
bers, and looked out continually to see that no- 
body cut away the luggage from behind the 
carriage. In vain the vetturino cracked his 
whip, and repeated his malcdctto, for the dark 
night advanced faster than he did. At length 
we saw lights before us. We were at Santa 
Agatha. 

The Signora was wonderfully silent at sup- 
per ; bu-t it did not escape me how much her 
eye rested upon me. And the next morning, 
before our journey, when I went to drink my 
glass of coffee,* she came up to me with great 
amiability. We were quite alone ; she offered 
me her hand, and said, good-humouredly and 
familiarly — 

“ You do not bear any ill-will towards me I 
I am perfectly ashamed before you, and yet I 
am quite guiltless of the whole thing.” 

I prayed her to make herself easy, and as- 
sured her that I had the greatest confidence in 
her womanly spirit. 

“ Yet you know nothing of me,” said she, 
“ but you may do ; probably my husband can 
be useful to you in the great foreign city. 
You can visit me and him. You, perhaps, 
have no acquaintance ; and a young man can 
so easily make an error in his choice.” 

I thanked her heartily for her sympathy. It 
affected me. One, however, meets with good 
people everywhere. 

“Naples is a dangerous city!” said she; 
but Federigo entered, and interrupted us. 

We were soon again seated in the carriage. 
The glass-windows were put down ; we be- 
came all better acquainted as we approached 
our common goal — Naples. Federigo was en- 
raptured with the picturesque groups which we 
met. Women, with red cloaks turned over 
their heads, rode past on asses, a young child 
at the breast, or sleeping with an elder one in 
the basket at their feet. A whole family rode 
upon one horse ; the wife behind the husband, 
and rested her arm or her head against his 
shoulder, and seemed to sleep ; the man had 
before him his little boy, who sat and played 
with the whip. It was such a group as Pignel- 
li has given in his beautiful scenes out of the 
life of the people. 

The air was grey, it rained a little ; we 
could neither see Vesuvius nor Capri. The 
corn stood juicy and green in the field under 
the tall fruit-trees and poplars, round which 
the vines enwreathed themselves. 

“ Do you see,” said the Signora, “ our Cam- 
pagna is a table well spread with bread, fruit, 
and wine ; and you will soon see our gay city 
and our swelling sea.” 

Towards evening we approached it. The 
splendid Toledo street lay before us ; it was 


* In Italy, people do not drink their coffee in cups, but ic 
wine-glasses. — Author's Note. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 67 


really a corso. On every hand were illumined 
shops ; tables which stood in the street, laden 
with oranges and tigs, were lit up by lamps 
and gaily-coloured lanterns. The whole street, 
with its innumerable lights in the open air, 
looked like a stream sprinkled over with stars. 
On each side stood lofty houses, with balconies 
before every window, nay, often quite round 
thq corner, and within these stood ladies and 
gentlemen, as if it were still a merry carnival. 
One carriage passed another, and the horses 
slipped on the smooth slabs of lava with which 
the street was paved. Now a little cabriolet 
on two wheels came by ; trom five to six peo- 
ple sat in the little carriage, ragged lads stood 
behind it, and beneath in the shaking net, lay 
quite snugly a half-naked lazzarone. One sin- 
gle horse' drew the whole crowd, and yet’ it 
went at a gallop. There was a fire kindled 
before a corner-house, before which lay two 
half-naked fellows, clad only in drawers, and 
with the vest fastened with one single button, 
who played at cards. Hand-organs and hurdy- 
gurdies were playing, to which women were 
singing ; all were screaming, all running one 
among another — soldiers, Greeks, Turks, and 
English. I felt myself transported into quite 
another world ; a more Southern life than that 
which I had known breathed around me. The 
Signora clapped her hands at the sight of her 
merry Naples. “Rome,” she said, “was a 
grave beside her laughing city.” 

We turned into the Largo del Castello, one 
of the largest squares in Naples, which leads 
down to the sea, and the same noise and the 
same crowd met us here. Around us we saw 
illuminated theatres, on the outside of which 
were bright pictures, which represented the 
principal scenes of the pieces which were be- 
ing performed within. Aloft, on a scaffold, 
stormed a Bajazzo family. The wife «ried out 
to the spectators ; the husband blew the trum- 
pet, and the youngest son beat them both with 
a great riding-whip, whilst a little horse stood 
upon its hind-legs in the back-scene, and read 
out of an open book. A man stood, and fought 
and sang in the midst of a crowd of sailors, 
who sat in a corner ; he was an improvisatore. 
An old fellow read aloud, out of a book, Orlan- 
do Furioso, as I was told ; his audience were 
applauding him just as we passed by. 

“ Monte Vesuvio !” cried the Signora ; and I 
now saw, at the end of the street, where the 
light-house stood, Vesuvius, lifting itself high 
in the air, and the fire-red lava, like a stream 
of blood, rolling down from its side. Above 
the crater hung a cloud, shining red from the 
reflected glow of the lava ; but I could only 
see the whole for a moment. The carriage 
rolled away with us across the square to the 
Hotel Casa Tedesca. Close beside this stood 
a little puppet theatre, and a still smaller one 
was erected before it, where Punchinello made 
his merry leaps, peeped, twirled himself about, 
and made his funny speeches. All around was 
laughter. Only very few paid attention to the 
monk who stood at the opposite corner, and 
preached from one of the projecting stone 
steps. An old broad-shouldered fellow, who 
looked like a sailor, held the cross, on which 
was the picture of the Redeemer. The. monk 
east flaming glances at the wooden theatre of 


the puppets, which drew the attention of the 
people away from his speech. 

“ Is this 'Lent!” I heard him say. “ Is this 
the time consecrated to Heaven! the time in 
which we should, humbled in the flesh, ’wander 
in sackcloth and in ashes! Carnival-time is 
it! Carnival always, night and day, year out 
and year in, till you post down into the depths 
of hell ! There you can twirl, there you can 
grin, can dance, and keep festino in the eternal 
pool and torment of hell !” 

His voice raised itself more and more ; the 
soft Neapolitan dialect rung in my ear like 
swaying verse, and the words melted melodi- 
ously one into another. But all the more his 
voice ascended, ascended also that of Punchi- 
nello, and he leaped all the more comically, 
and was all the more applauded by the people ; 
then the monk, in a holy rage, snatched the 
cross from the hand of the man who bore it, 
rushed forward with it, and, exhibiting the 
crucified,, exclaimed, “See, here is the true 
Punchinello ! Him shall you see, him shall 
you hear! For that you shall have eyes and 
ears ! Kyrie, eleison !” and impressed by the 
holy sign, the whole crowd dropped upon their 
knees, and exclaimed with one voice, “ Kyrie, 
eleison !” Even the puppet-player let fall his 
Punchinello. I stood beside our carriage, won- 
derfully struck by the scene. 

Federigo hastened to obtain a carriage to 
take the Signora to her home. She extended 
her hand to him, with her thanks ; then, throw- 
ing her arm around my neck, I felt a warm 
kiss upon my lips, and heard her say, “Wel- 
come to Naples !” And, from the carriage 
which conveyed her away, she waved kisses 
with her hand, and we ascended to the cham- 
ber in the hotel which the waiter assigned 
to us. • 


CHAPTER XVI. • 

• 

PAIN AND CONSOLATION NEARER ACQUAINTANCE 

WITH THE SIGNORA THE LETTER HAVE I 

MISUNDERSTOOD HER ! 

After Federigo was in bed, I continued sit-, 
ting in the open balcony, which looked into the 
street, with Vesuvius before me. The extra- 
ordinary world, in which I seemed to be as in 
a dream, forbade me to sleep. By degrees it 
became more and more quiet in the street be- 
low me : the lights were extinguished : it was 
already past midnight. My eye rested upon 
the mountain, where the pillar of fire raised it- 
self up from the crater, towards the blood-red, 
broad mass of cloud, which, united to this, 
seemed like a mighty pine-tree of fire and flame : 
the lava streams were the roots, with which it 
embraced the mountain. 

My soul was deeply inpressed by this great 
spectacle — the voice of God, which spoke from 
the volcano, as from the still silent night-heav- 
en. It was one of those moments which oc- 
curs now and then, when, so to say, the soul 
stands face to face with its God. I compre- 
hended something of His omnipotence, wis- 
dom, and goodness — comprehended something 
of Him, whose servants are the lightning and 
the whirlwind ; yet, without whose permission. 


68 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


not even a sparrow falls to the earth. My own 
life stood clearly before me : I saw in the whole 
a wonderful guiding and directing; every mis- 
fortune even, and every sorrow, had brought 
about a change for the better. The unhappy 
death of my mother by the runaway horses, 
whilst I stood a poor helpless child, seemed to 
shape out for me a better future ; for was not 
perhaps the peculiar and nobler reason which 
afterwards induced Excellenza to take charge 
of my bringing up the circumstance of his hav- 
ing been the innocent cause of my misfortune! 
The strife between Mariuccia and Peppo, the 
fearful moments which I passed in his house, 
drove me out upon the stream of the world ; 
for unless I had dwelt with old Domenica, on 
the dreary Campagna, the attention of Exoel- 
lenza had perhaps never been directed to me. 

Thus I reviewed in thought scene after scene 
of my life, and found the highest wisdom and 
goodness in the chain of events ; nor was it 
until I came to that last link, that all seemed to 
fall asunder. My acquaintance with Annunci- 
ata was like a spring day, which in a moment 
had expanded every dower-bud in my soul. 
With her I could have become every thing : 
her love would have perfected the happiness 
of my life. Bernardo’s sentiment towards her 
was not pure like mine : even had he suffered 
for a moment by losing her, his pain would have 
been short : he would soon have learned to con- 
sole himself ; but that Annunciata loved him 
annihilated all my life’s happiness. Here I 
comprehended not the wisdom of the Almighty, 
and felt nothing but pain, because of all my van 
ished dreams. At that moment a cithern sound- 
ed under the balcony ; and I saw a man, with a 
cloak thrown over his shoulders, who touched 
the strings from which trembled notes of love. 
Shortly afterwards, the door of the opposite 
house opened quite softly, and the man vanish- 
ed behind it — a happy lover, who went to kiss- 
es and embraces. 

I looked up to the star-bright air — to the 
brilliant dark blue sea which gleamed redly 
with the reflected light of the lava and the 
eruption. 

“ Glorious nature !” burst forth from my 
heart. “ Thou art my mistress ! Thou clasp- 
e.st me to thy heart — openest to me thy heav- 
en, and thy breath kisses me on my lips and 
brow ! Thee will I sing, thy beauty, thy holy 
greatness ! I will repeat before the people the 
deep melodies which thou singest in my soul ! 
Let my heart bleed ; the butterfly which strug- 
gles upon the needle becomes most beautiful : 
the stream which, hurled as a waterfall from 
the rock, scatters itself in foam, is more glori- 
ous ! — that is the poet's lot. Life is, indeed, 
only a short dream. When in that other w r orld 
I again meet Annunciata, she will also love me. 
All pure souls love one another : arm in arm 
the blessed spirits advance towards God !” 

Thus dreamed my thoughts ; and courage 
and power to qome forth as an improvisatore, 
as well as a strong delight in so doing, filled 
my soul. One thing alone lay heavily on my 
heart — what would Francesca and Excellenza 
say to my flight from home, and my debut as 
improvisatore! They believed me industrious- 
ly and quietly occupied with my books in Rome. 
Tl is consciousness allowed me to have no rest : 


I determined, therefore, that same night to writt 
to them. 

With filial confidence, I related to them ev. 
ery thing which had occurred, every single cir- 
cumstance — my love for Annunciata, and the 
consolation which alone I found in nature and 
in art ; and concluded with an* urgent prayer 
for an answer, as favourable as their hearts 
could give me ; nor before I obtained this 
"would I take one step, or come forward in pub- 
lic. Longer than a month they must not let 
me languish. 

My tears fell upon the letter as I w T rote it t 
but I felt relieved by it ; and when I had ended 
it, I quickly slept more soundly and calmly than 
I had done for a long time. 

The following day, Federigo and I arranged 
our 'affairs. He removed into a new lodging, 
in one of the side-streets. I remained at the 
Casa Tedesca, where I could see Vesuvius and 
the sea, tw T o world’s "wonders which were new 
to me. I industriously visited the Masco Bour- 
bonico, the theatres, and the promenades ; and 
during three days’ residence in the foreign city, 
had made myself very well acquainted with it. 

An invitation for Federigo and me came from 
Professor Maretti, and his wife Santa. At the 
first moment, I believed this to he a mistake, 
as I knew neither the one nor the other, and 
yet the invitation seemed to have particular 
reference to me : I was to bring Federigo with 
me. On inquiry, I found that Maretti was a 
very learned man, an antiquarian ; and that 
Signora Santa had lately returned home from a 
visit in Rome. I and Federigo had made her 
acquaintance on the journey. Thus then she 
was the Neapolitan Signora. 

In the course of the evening, Federigo and I 
went. We found a numerous company in a 
well-lighted saloon, the polished marble floor 
of which reflected the lights ; whilst a large 
scaldino, with a loose iron grating, diffused a 
mild warmth. 

Signora, or, as we now indeed know her 
namd, Santa, met us with open arms. Her 
light blue silk dress was very becoming to her : 
had she not been so- stout, she would have been 
very lovely. She introduced us to her compa- 
ny, and prayed us to make ourselves quite at 
home. 

“ Into my house,” said she, “enter none but 
friends : you will soon become acquainted with 
them all.” With this she mentioned several 
names, pointing to different persons. 

“ We talk, we dance, we have a little sing- 
ing,” said she, “and so the time flies on.” 

She pointed out seats to us. A young lady 
was seated at the piano, and sung : it was pre- 
cisely the very same aria which Annunciata 
had sung in Dido ; but it sounded with qui*e 
another expression, and seized upon the soul 
with a much less powerful effect. Yet I was 
compelled, with the rest, to applaud the singer ; 
and now she struck a few accords, and played 
a lively dance : two or three gentlemen took 
their ladies, and floated- over the polished, 
smooth floor. I withdrew myself into a win- 
dow : a little half-famished-looking man, with 
ever-moving, glassy eyes, bowed himself deep- 
ly before me. I had remarked ljjm, like a little 
kobold, incessantly popping in and out of the 
door. In order to get up a conversation, I be- 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


gan to speak of the eruption of Vesuvius, and 
how beautilul the lava-stream was. 

“ That is nothing, my friend,” replied he, 
“nothing to the great revolution of 96, which 
Pliny describes : then the ashes flew as far as 
Constantinople. We have also, in my time, 
gone with umbrellas in Naples, because of the 
ashes ; but between Naples and Constantinople 
there is a difference. The classical time ex- 
celled us in every thing — a time in which we 
should have prayed, ‘ Serus in coduni rcdeas V ” 

1 spoke of the theatre of San Carlo ; and the 
man went back to the car of Thespis, and gave 
me a treatise on the tragic and comic Muses. 
I dropped a word about the mustering of the 
royal troops ; and he immediately went into 
the ancient mode of warfare, and commanding 
of the whole phalanx. The only question which 
he himself asked me was, whether T studied the 
history of art, and gave myself up to antiqui- 
ties. I said that the whole world’s life, every 
thing lay near to my heart ; that I felt called 
upon to be a poet ; and the man then clapped 
his hands, and began to declaim about my lyre — 

“ O decus Phcebi, et dapibus supremi 
Grata testudo Jovis !” 

“ Has he now got hold of you 1” said Santa, 
laughing, and coming up to us ; “ then are you 
already deep in Sesostris’ age. But your own 
times have demands upon you ; there sit la- 
dies on the opposite side with whonryou must 
• dance.” 

“ But I do not dance ; never did dance,” re- 
plied I. 

“ But if I,” said she, “ the lady of the house, 
were to ask you to dance with me, you would 
not refuse.” 

“Yes, indeed; for I should dance so badly 
that we should both of us fall on the smooth 
floor.” 

“ A heautiful idea l” exclaimed she, and skip- 
ped across to Federigo, and soon were they two 
floating through the room. 

“A lively woman!” said the husband, and 
added, “ and handsome, very handsome, Signor 
Abbe.” 

“Very handsome,” replied I politely, and 
then we were, Heaven knows how, deep in the 
Etruscan Vases. He offered himself as my 
guide in the Museo Bourbonico, and explained 
to me what great masters they had been who 
had painted these brittle treasures, in which 
every line contributed to the beauty of the fig- 
ures in expression of attitude, and who were 
obliged to paint them w T hilst the clay was 
warm, it not being possible to rub any thing 
out, whilst, on the contrary, every line which 
had once been made must remain there. 

“Are you yet deep in history V inquired 
Santa, who again came up to us ; “the conse- 
quence then follows !” exclaimed she, laughing, 
and drew me away from the pedant, whilst she 
whispered, half aloud, “ Do not let my husband 
annoy you ! You must be gay, must take part 
in the gaiety ! I will seat you here ; you shall 
relate to me what you have seen, heard, and 
enjoyed.” 

I then told her how much Naples pleased 
me ; told her of that which had given me most 
delight ; of a little trip I had this afternoon 
made through the grotto of Posilippo, besides 
which I had discovered, in a thick vine-grove, 


the ruins of a little church, which had been 
converted into a family dwelling, whilst the 
friendly children, and the handsome woman 
who had served me with wine, had greatly 
contributed to make it all only the more ro- 
mantic/ 

“ Then you have been making acquaintan-. 
ces 1” said she, laughing, and lifting her fore- 
finger ; “ nay, there is no need for you to be 
confused about it : at your age the heart does 
not amuse itself with a Lent sermon.” 

This was about all that I learned this even- 
ing of Signora Santa and her husband. There 
was a something in her manner that expressed 
itself in an ease, a naivete peculiar to the Nea- 
politans, a cordiality which wonderfully attract- 
ed me to her. Her husband was erudite, and 
that was no fault ; he would be the best guide 
for me in the Museum. And so he was ; and 
Santa, whom I often visited, became to me 
more and more attractive. The attentions 
which she shewed to me flattered me, and her 
sympathy opened my heart and my lips. I 
knew but very little of the world, was in many 
things a complete child, and grasped, therefore, 
the first hand which extended itself kindly to- 
wards me, and, in return for a hand-pressure, 
gave, my whole confidence. 

One day, Signora Santa touched upon the 
most important moment of my life, my separa- 
tion from Annunciata, and I found consolation 
and relief in speaking freely of it to the sympa- 
thising lady. That she could see many faults 
in Bernardo, after I had given a description of 
him, was a sort of consolation to me ; but that 
she could also find failings in Annunciata I 
could not pardon. 

“ She is too small for the stage,” said she, 
“ altogether too slenderly made ; that certain- 
ly you will concede to me? Some substance 
there must be as long as we belong to this 
world. I know, to be sure, right well, that 
here, in Naples, all the young men were capti- 
vated by her beauty. It was the voice, the in- 
comparably fine voice, which transported them 
into the spirit-world, where her fine form had 
its abode. If I were a man, I should never fall 
in love^vith such a being: I should actually 
fear her falling to pieces at my first embrace.” 

She made me smile, and that, perhaps, 
thought I, was her intention. To Annunciata’s 
talent, mind, and pure heart, she did the fullest 
justice. 

During the last evening, inspired by the 
beauty of the surrounding country and my own 
excited state of feeling, I had written some 
short poems: “Tasso in Captivity,” “The 
Begging Monk,” and some other little lyrical 
pieces, which perfectly expressed my unhappy 
love, and the shattered picture-world which 
floated in my soul. I began to read them to 
Santa, but in the middle of the first my feel- 
ings, which I had there described, so entirely 
overpowered me, that I burst into tears ; with 
that, she pressed my hand and wept with me. 

With these tears she bound me for ever ! 

Her house became to me a home. I regular- 
ly longed for the hour when I should again con- 
verse with her. Her humour, the comical ideas 
which she often started, made me frequently 
laugh, although I was compelled to feel how 
very different was Annunciata’s wit and merri 


70 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


ment — how much nobler and purer ; but then, 
as no Annunciata lived for me, I was grateful 
and devoted to Santa. 

“ Have you lately,” she asked me one day, 
“ seen the handsome woman, near Posilip- 
po, and the romantic house which is half a 
church 1” 

“ Only once since,” I replied. 

She was very friendly!” inquired Santa, 
“ the children were gone out as guides, and the 
husband was on the lake ! Take care of your- 
self, Signore: on that side of Naples lies the 
under- wo rid !” 

I honestly assured her that nothing but the 
romantic scenery drew me towards the grotto 
of Posilippo. 

“ Dear friend,” said she, confidentially, “ I 
know the thing better ! Your heart was full 
of love, of the first strong love to her, whom I 
will not call unworthy, but who, however, did 
not act openly towards you ! Do not say one 
word to me against this : she occupied your 
soul, and you have torn yourself from this im- 
age — have given her up, as you yourself have 
assured me, and therefore there is a vacancy in 
your soul which craves to be filled. Formerly 
you lived alone in your books and your dreams ; 
the singer has drawn you down into the world 
of human life ; you are become flesh and blood, 
like the rest of us, and these assert their right. 
And why should they not ! I never judge a 
young man with severity ; and besides this, 
they can act as they will !” 

I objected to this last assertion, but as to 
the desolation which remained in my soul after 
the loss of Annunciata, she was right in that ; 
but what could supply the place of that lost 
image ! 

“ You are not like other people !” continued 
she; “you are a poetical being; and do you 
see, even the ideal Annunciata required some- 
thing more of a realist ; for that reason she 
preferred Bernardo, who was so much inferior 
to you in soul. But,” added she, “ you beguile 
me to talk to you as it is' hardly becoming for 
me, as a lady, to do ; your wonderful simplicity 
and your little knowledge of the world make 
one become as naive in speech as you are in 
thoughts ;” and with this she laughed aloud 
and patted me on the cheek. 

In the evening, when I sat alone with Fede- 
rigo, and he became merry and confidential, he 
told me of the happy days which he had spent 
in Rome, in which his heart also had beaten 
strongly ; Mariuccia had played her part in 
these adventures. 

Many young men came to the house of the 
Professor Maretti ; they danced well, talked 
excellently in company, received glances of fa- 
vour from the ladies, and were esteemed by the 
men. 1 had known them but for a short time, 
and yet they confided to me already their hearts’ 
affairs, which I shrunk from doing, even with 
Bernardo, and which only my ingrained affec- 
tion for him made me* tolerate in him ! Yes, 
they were all different from me. Was Santa 
actually right! should I be only a poetical be- 
ing in tHis world! That Annunciata really 
loved Bernardo was a sufficient proof thereof ; 
my spiritual I was perhaps dear to her, but I 
myself could not win her. 

I had now been a month in Naples, and yet 


had heard nothing either of her or of Bernardo. 
At that time the post brought me a letter; T 
seized it with a throbbing heart, looked at the 
seal and direction to divine of its contents. I 
recognised the Borghese arms and the old 
Excellenza’s hand-writing. I hardly dared to 
open it. 

“Eternal mother of God!” I prayed, “be 
gracious to me ! Thy will directs all things for 
the best !” 

I opened the letter and read : 

“ Signore — Whilst I believed that you were 
availing yourself of the opportunity which I af- 
forded to you of learning something, find of be- 
coming a useful member of society, all is going 
on quite otherwise ; quite differently to my in- 
tentions regarding you. As the innocent occa- 
sion of your mother’s death, have I done this 
for you. We are quits. 

“ Make your debut as improvisatore, as poet, 
when and how you will, but give me this one 
proof of your so-much-talked-of gratitude, nev- 
er to connect my name, my solicitude for you, 
with your public life. The very great service 
which you might have rendered me by learning 
something, you would not render ; the very 
small one of calling me benefactor is so repug- 
nant to me, that you cannot do any thing more 
offensive to me than to do that !” 

The blood stagnated at my heart ; my hands 
dropped powerless on my knees ; hut I could 
not weep ; that would have relieved my soul. 

“ Jesus Maria !” stammered I ; my head sank 
down on the table. Deaf, without thought, 
without pain even, I lay immovably in this po- 
sition. I had not a word with which to pray 
to God and the saints ; they also, like the world 
seemed to have forsaken me. 

At that moment Federigo entered 

“Art thou ill, Antonio!” asked he, pressing 
my hand ; “ one must not thus wall oneself in 
so with one’s grief. Who knows whether thou 
wouldst have been happy wfith Annunciata ! 
That which is best for us always happens ; that 
I have found more than once, although not in 
the most agreeable way. 

Without a word I handed to him the letter, 
which he read ; in the meantime my tears 
found a free course, but I was ashamed to let 
him see me weeping, and turned away from 
him, but he pressed me in his arms and said, 
“ Weep freely ; weep all thy grief out, and then 
thou wilt be better.” 

When I was so'mewhat calmer, he inquired 
from me whether I had taken any resolve. A 
thought then passed through my soul ; I would 
reconcile the Madonna to me, to whose service 
I was dedicated as a child ; in her had I found 
a protector, and my future belonged to her. 

“ It is best,” said I, “ that I become a monk ; 
for that my fate has prepared me ; there is no- 
thing more for me in this world. I am besides 
that only a poetical being, not a man, like the 
rest of you ! Yes, in the bosom of the church 
is a home and peace for me !” 

“Be reasonable, however, Antonio!” said 
Federigo to me. “Let Excellenza, let the 
world see that there is power in thee, let the 
adverse circumstances of life elevate and not 
depress thee. I think and hope, however, that 
thou wilt only be a monk for this eveaing • to- 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


71 


morrow, when the sun shines warmly into thy 
heart, thou wilt not be one. Thou art really 
an improvisatore, a poet, and hast soul and 
knowledge. Every thing will be glorious, ex- 
cellent. To-morrow we will take a cabriolet, 

! and drive to Herculaneum and Pompeii, and 
will ascend Vesuvius. We have not been 
there ; thou must be amused and brought again 
into humour, and when all the dark fumes are 
dissipated, then we will talk about the future 
qaite rationally. Now thou goest with me to 
the Toledo ; we will amuse ourselves. Life 
speeds on at a gallop, and all of us have, like 
the snail, our burden upon our backs, it matters 
not whether of lead or mere playthings, if they 
are alike oppressive. 5 ’ 

His solicitude for me affected me ; I was 
still supported by a friend. Without a word I 
took my hat and followed him. 

Music was merrily sounding in the square 
from one of the little wooden theatres ; we re- 
mained standing before it among a great crowd 
of people. The whole artistic family stood as 
usual upon the stage ; the man and woman, in 
gay clothes, hoarse with shouting ; a pale little 
boy, with a care-depressed countenance, and in 
a white dress, stood and played upon the violin, 
whilst two little sisters twirled about in a live- 
ly dance. Tne whole thing appeared to me 
very tragical. 

“The unhappy beings!” thought I, “uncer- 
tain as theirs, lies als.o my fate.” I linked my 
arm closely in Federigo's, and could not repress 
the sigh which ascended from my breast. 

“ Now be calm and rational,” whispered Fed- 
erigo. “ First of all, we will take a little walk 
to let the wind blow on thy red eyes, and then 
we will visit Signora Maretti ; she will either 
laugh thee quite gay again, or else weep with 
thee, till thou art tired ; she can do that better 
than I can.” 

Thus for some time we wandered up and 
down the great street, and then went to the 
house of Maretti. 

“ At length you are come one evening out of 
the common course,” exclaimed Santa kindly 
as we entered. 

“ Signore Antonio is in his elegiac mood ; it 
must be removed by mirth, and to whom could 
I bring him better than to you! To-morrow 
we drive to Herculaneum and Pompeii, ascend 
Vesuvius ; if we could only be blessed with an 
eruption.” 

“ Carpe diem” broke forth from Maretti. “ I 
should delight to make the journey with you : 
but not to ascend Vesuvius, only to see how it 
goes with the excavations in Pompeii. I have 
just received from there some little glass orna- 
ments of various colours ; these I have arranged 
according to their shades, and have within an 
opusculum on them. You must see these treas- 
ures,” said he, turning to Federigo, “ and give 
me a hint with regard to colour.. And you,” 
continued he, clapping me on the shoulder, 
“you shall begin to be merry, and then after- 
wards we will empty a glass of Falernian, and 
sing with Horace, — 

“ ‘ Ornatus viridi tempora pampino, 

Liber vota bonos dacit ad exitus.’' 

I remained alone with Santa. 

“Have you written any thing lately!” in- 
quired she. “You look as if you had been | 


composing one of those beautiful pieces which 
so wonderfully speak to the heart. I have 
thought many times on you and your Tasso, 
and have felt myself quite pensive, although 
you very well know that I do not belong to the 
weeping sisterhood. Be now in a good hu- 
mour. Look at me ; you say nothing compli- 
mentary ; you see nothing, say nothing about 
my new dress. See how becoming it is ; a 
poet must have an eye for every thing. I am 
slender as a pine ; regularly thin ! Is it not 
sol” 

“ That one sees immediately,” was my reply. 

“Flatterer!” interrupted she, “am I not as 
usual 1 My dress hangs quite loosely upon me ! 
Now what is there to blush about! You are, 
however, a man ! We must have you more in 
women’s society, and thus educate you a little ; 
that we can do excellently. Now sit down, 
my husband and Federigo are up to the ears 
in their blessed antiquity ; let us live for the 
present ; one has much more enjoyment in 
that ! You shall taste our excellent. Falernian 
wine, and that directly ; you can drink of it 
again with the other two.” 

I refused, and attempted to begin an ordina- 
ry conversation on the events of the day ; but I 
found, only too plainly, how abstracted I was. 

“ I am only a burden to you,” said I, rising, 
and about to take my hat. “ Pardon me, Sig- 
nora ; I am not well, and that it is which makes 
me unsociable.” 

“You will not leave me!” said she, drawing 
me back to my chair, and looking sympathising- 
ly and anxiously into my face. “What has 
happened! Have confidence in me. I mean 
it so honestly and so kindly towards you ! Do 
not let my petulance wound you. It is only 
my nature. Tell me what has happened ; have 
you had letters! Is Bernardo dead!” 

“ No, God be praised,” returned I ; “it is an- 
other thing, quite another.” 

I wished not to have spoken of Excellenza's 
letter ; yet, in my distress, I disclosed every 
thing to her quite open-heartedly, and with 
tears in her eyes she besought me not to be 
troubled. 

“ I am thrust out of the world,” said I ; “ for- 
saken by every one; nobody — nobody at all 
loves me.” 

“Yes, Antonio,” exclaimed she, “you are 
loved. You are handsome ; you are good ; my 
husband loves you, and I love you ;” and with 
these words I felt a burning kiss upon my 
brow^ her arm clasped my neck, and her cheek 
touched mine. 

My blood became like flame, a trembling 
went through my limbs ; it was as if my breath 
stood still ; never had I felt so before ; the 
door opened, and Federigo and Maretti entered. 

“Your friend is ill,” said she, in her usual 
tone ; “ lie has almost terrified me. Pale and 
red in one moment ; I thought he would have 
fainted in my arms, but now he is better ; is it 

not so, Antonio !” 

' 

And then, as if nothing had happened, as if 
nothing had been said, she jested about me. I 
felt my own heart beat, and a feeling of shame 
and indignation arose in my soul ; I turned from 
her, the beautiful daughter of sin. 

“ Qua sit hiems Veluz, quod coelum , V ala Sa- 
lami /” said Maretti. “ How is it with heart 


72 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


and head, Signor ? What has he now done, the 
fcrus Cupidoj who always sharpens the bloody 
arrow oh the glowing whetstone 1” 

The Falernian wine sparkled in the glass. 
Santa clinked her glass against mine, and said, 
with an extraordinary expression, “To better 
times !” 

“ To better times !” rcpeateL Federigo ; “ one 
must never despair.”* 

Maretti touched his glass to mine also, and 
nodded, “To better times !” 

Santa laughed aloud, and stroked my cheek. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

RAMBLE THROUGH HERCULANEUM AND POMPEII 

THE EVENING ON VESUVIUS. 

• • 

The next morning Federigo fetched me. 
Maretti joined us. Fresh morning breezes 
blew from the sea, and our carriage rolled round 
the bay from Naples to Herculaneum. 

“ How the smoke whirls from Vesuvius !” 
said Federigo, and pointed to the mountain. 
“We shall have a glorious evening.” 

“The smoke whirled in another manner,” 
said Maretti; “it went like the shadow of a 
cloud over the whole country, anno 79 post 
Christum. At that time the cities which we 
now go to visit w.ere buried under lava -and 
ashes !” 

Exactly where the suburbs of Naples end, 
begin the cities Sant Giovanni, Portici, and Ile- 
cina, which lie so close that they may be re- 
garded as one city. We had reached the goal 
before I was aware of it, and drew up before a 
house in Recina. Under the street here, under 
the whole city, lies Herculaneum buried. Lava 
and ashes covered the whole city in a few hours ; 
people forgot its existence, and the city of Re- 
cina rose above it. 

We entered the nearest house, in the garden 
of which was a large open well, through which 
a spiral staircase descended. 

“ See you, gentlemen,” said Maretti ; “ it was 
post Christum 1720 that the Prince of Elboeuf 
had this well dug. As soon as they had de- 
scended a few feet, they found statues, and so 
the excavation was forbidden ( mirabile dictu !). 
For thirty years not a hand moved itself before 
Charles of Spain came here, ordered the well 
to be dug deeper, and they stood upon a great 
stone staircase, such as we now see here !” 

The daylight descended here but to a short 
distance ; and these were the seats of the great 
theatre of Herculaneum. Our guides kindled 
a light for each of us to carry, and we descend- 
ed to the depth of the well, and now stood upon 
the seats on which the spectators, seventeen 
hundred years before, had sat ; like a giant 
body, had laughed, been affected by, and had 
applauded the scenes of life which had been 
represented ! 

A little low door, close by, led us into a large, 
spacious passage. We descended to the or- 
chestra ; saw there the different apartments 
for the different musicians, the dressing-room, 
and the. scenes themselves. The greatness of 
the whole deeply impressed me. It could be 
lighted for us only piecemeal, yet it seemed to 
me much larger than the theatre of San Carlo. 
Silent, dark, and desolate, lay all around us. 


and a world rioted above us. As we imagine 
that a vanished race may, as spirits, enter into 
our scene of life and action, seemed 1 now to 
have stepped out of our age, and to be wander- 
ing, like a ghost, in the far-off antiquity. I lit- 
erally longed for daylight, and we soon breathed 
again the warm air. 

We walked straight forward along the street 
of Recina, and an excavation lay before us, but 
much less than the former. This was all the 
remains of Herculaneum on which the sun 
shone. We saw one single street, houses with 
small, narrow windows, red and blue painted 
walls ; very little in comparison with that which 
awaited us in Pompeii. 

Recina lay behind us, and now we saw around 
us a plain, which seemed like a pitch-black, 
foaming sea, which had run into iron-dross. 
Yet here buildings had raised themselves ; lit- 
tle vine-gardens grew verdantly, and the church 
was half buried in this land of death. 

“I myself saw this destruction!’.’ said Ma- 
retti. “ I was a child, in the age between lac- 
teus and puer, as one may say. Never shall I 
forget that day ! The black dross over which 
we are now rolling was a glowing river of fire ; 
I saw how it rolled down from the mountain 
towards Torre del Greco. My father ( beati 
sunt mortui ) has even plucked ripe grapes for 
me where now lies the black, stone-hardened 
rind. The lights burned blue within the church, 
and the outer walls were red from the strong 
glow of fire. The vineyards were buried, but 
the church stood like a floating ark upon this 
glowing sea of fire !” 

Like vine-branches laden with heavy bunches 
swung from tree to tree, and looking like one 
single garland, thus united themselves city to 
city around the bay of Naples.* The whole 
way, with the exception of the already-men- 
tioned desolate extent, appears a Toledo street. 
The light cabriolets full of people, riders on 
horseback and on asses, passed oae another ; 
whole caravans of travellers, ladies and gentle- 
men, contribute to the life of the picture. 

I had always imagined Pompeii, like Hercu- 
laneum, below the earth, but it is not so. It 
looks down from the mountain over the vine- 
yards to the blue Mediterranean. We ascend- 
ed at every step, and stood now before an open- 
ing made in a wall of dark-grey ashes, to which 
grim hedges and cotton-plants attempted to 
give a friendly appearance. Soldiers on guard 
presented themselves, and we entered the sub- 
urb of Pompeii. 

“ You have-read the letters of Tacitus 1” said 
Maretti. “ You have read those of the younger 
Pliny ; now you shall have such commentaries 
on his work as no other author has.” 

The long street in which we stood is called 
the Tomb Street. Here are monuments on 
monuments. Before two of these one finds 
round, handsome seats, with beautiful orna- 
ments. Here, in 'those former times, the sons 
and daughters of Pompeii rested themselves, on 
their rambles out of the city. From the tombs, 
they looked out over the blooming landscape, 
the lively bend of the road, and the bay. Next 
we saw a row of houses on each side, all shops ; 
like so many skeletons with hollow eye-sockets 

* Where Torre del Greco ends begins immediately Torre 
del Anaunciata. — Aul ir’s Note. 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


they seemed to stare upon us. On every hand 
were traces of the earthquake which, earlier 
than the great destruction, had shaken the city. 
Many houses plainly shewed that they were in 
the progress of building exactly when the fire 
and ashes buried them for centuries ; unfinished 
marble cornices lay on the ground, and near to 
them the models, in terra cotta, from which 
they were being worked. 

We had now reached the walls of the city ; 
up these, flights of broad steps led us to an am- 
phitheatre. Before us stretched out a long, 
narrow street, .paved, as in Naples, with lava- 
flags, the remains of a much earlier eruption 
than that which, seventeen hundred years be- 
fore, had devastated Herculaneum and Pompeii. 
Deep tracks of wheels are visible in the stone ; 
and upon the houses one still reads the names 
of the inhabitants, hewn in whilst they yet lived 
there. Before a few of the houses there yet 
hung out signs, one of which announced that 
here, in this house, mosaic-tvork was done. 

All the apartments were small ; the light was 
admitted through the roof, or by an opening 
above the door, a square portico inclosed the 
court, which was usually only large enough for 
a single little flower-bed or basin, in which the 
fountains played ; for the rest, the courts and 
floors were ornamented with beautiful mosaics, 
in which artistical forms, circles, and quadrants, 
cut through each other. The walls were bright- 
ly painted with deep red, blue, and white col- 
ours, with female dancers, genii, and light float- 
ing figures around upon a glowing ground. All 
was indescribably graceful in colouring and 
drawing, and as fresh as if they had been paint- 
ed only yesterday. Federigo and Maretti were 
in deep conversation on the wonderful compo- 
sition of colours which resist time so uncom- 
monly well — -yes, before I was aware of it, were 
deep in the middle of Bayardi’s ten folio vol- 
umes on the “Antique Monuments of Hercula- 
neum.” They, like a thousand others, forgot 
the poetical reality which lay before them, and 
busied themselves with criticism, and treatises 
thereon. Pompeii itself was forgotten amid 
their learned researches. I had not been thus 
consecrated to these outwardly learned mys- 
teries ; the reality around me was a poetical 
world, in which my^soul felt itself at home. 
Centuries melted together into years, revealed 
themselves in moments in which every care 
slumbered, and my thoughts won anew repose 
and inspiration. % 

We stood before the house of Sallust. 

•• Sallust !” shouted Maretti, and lifted his hat, 
“ corpus sine ammo! The soul is hqnce, but we 
salute reverentially the inanimate body.” 

A large picture of Diana and Actseon occu- 
pied the opposite wall. The workmen ex- 
claimed aloud and joyfully, and brought forth 
to the light a magnificent marble table, white 
as the stone of Carrara, supported by two glori- 
ous sphinxes ; but that which deeply affected 
me, was the yellow bones which I saw, and, in 
the ashes, the impression of a female breast of 
infinite beauty. 

We went across the Forum to the temple of 
Jupiter. The sun shone upon the white mar- 
_ hie pillars ; beyond lay the smoking Vesuvius ; 
pitch-black clouds whirled out from the crater, 
and white as snow hung the white steam over 

K 


73 

the stream of lava, which had formed tc itself 
a path down the side of the mountain. 

We saw the theatre, and seated oui selves 
upon the step-formed benches. The stage, 
with its pillars, its walled background, with 
doors for exit, all stood as if people had played 
there yesterday ; but no tone more will sound 
from the orchestra, no Roscius speak to the ex- 
ulting crowd. All was dead around us ; the 
great stage of Nature alone breathed of life. 
The succulent green vineyards, the populous 
road which led down to Salerno, and in the back- 
ground the dark blue mountain, with its sharp 
outline in the warm ethereal colouring was a 
great theatre, upon which Pompeii itself stood 
like a tragic chorus, which sang of the power 
of the angel of death. I saw him, even him- 
self, whose wings are coal-black ashes, and 
overflowing lava which he spreads over cities 
and villages. 

We were not to ascend Vesuvius >ill evening, 
when the glowing lava and moonlight would 
have great pffect. We took asses from Recina, 
and rode up the mountain ; the road lay through 
vineyards and lonesome farms ; very soon, how- 
ever, the vegetation diminished into small, woe- 
ful looking hedges, and dry, reed-like blades of 
grass. The wind blew colder and stronger, 
otherwise the evening was infinitely beautiful. 
The sun seemed, as it sank, like a burning fire, 
the heavens beamed like gold, the sea was in- 
digo, and the islands pale blue clouds. It was 
a fairy world in which I stood. On the edge of 
the bay Naples grew more and . more indistinct ; 
in the far distance lay the mountains covered 
with snow, which shone gloriously like the gla- 
ciers of the Alps whilst aloft, quite close to us, 
glow'ed the red lava of Vesuvius. 

At length we came to a plain, covered with 
the iron-black lava, where was neither road nor 
track Our asses carefully assayed their foot- 
ing before they advanced a step, and thus we 
onty very slowly ascended the higher part of 
the mountain, which, like a promontory, raised 
itself out of this dead, petrified sea. We ap- 
proached the dwelling of the hermit through a 
narrow excavated road, where only reed-like 
vegetation was found. A troop of soldiers sat 
here around a blazing fire, and drank from their 
bottles lacrymce Christi. They serve as an es- 
cort for strangers against the robbers of the 
mountains. Here the torch* 1 ' were lighted, and 
the winds seized upon their flames as if they 
would extinguish them, and rend away every 
spark. By this wavering, unsteady light, we 
rode onward in the dark evening along the nar- 
row, rocky path, over loose pieces ff lava, and 
close beside the deep abyss. A 4 /ength, like a 
mountain, reared itself before us the coal-black 
peak of ashes : this we had to ascend ; our ass- 
es could no longer be serviceable to us ; we left 
them, therefore, behind us with the lads who 
had driven them. 

The guide went first with the torches, nve 
others followed after, but in a zig-zag direction, 
because we went through the soft ashes, in 
which we sank at every step up to the knee ; 
nor could w r e keep a regular line behind one an- 
other, because there lay great loose stones and 
blocks Oi lava in the ashes, which rolled down 
when we trod upon them ; at every other step 
we slid one backwards, every moment we ftf! 


74 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


into the black ashes ; it was as if we had leaden 
weights fastened to our feet. 

“ Courage !” cried the guide before us, “ we 
shall quickly be at the summit 1 ” But the point 
of the mountain seemed for ever to be at the 
same height above us. Expectation and desire 
gave wings to my feet ; an hour elapsed before 
we reached the top — I was the first who did so. 

A vast plat-form, scattered over with im- 
mense pieces of lava thrown one upon another, 
spread itself here before our eyes, in the midst 
of which stood a mount of ashes. It was the 
cone of the deep crater. Like a ball of fire hung 
the moon above it ; thus high had it ascended ; 
and now, for the first time, the mountain per- 
mitted us to see it, but only for a moment ; in 
the next, with the rapidity of thought, a coal- 
black cloud whirled out of the crater, and it be- 
came dark night around 11s ; deep thunder roll- 
ed within the mountain ; the ground trembled 
under our feet, and we were compelled to hold 
firmly one by another that we might not fall. 
The same moment resounded ay explosion 
which a hundred cannon could only faintly imi- 
tate. The smoke divided itself, and a column 
of fire, certainly a mile high, darted into the 
blue air; glowing stones, like blood-rubies, were 
cast upwards in the white fire. I saw them 
like rockets falling above us, but they fell in a 
right line into the crater, or else rolled down 
the mound of ashes. 

“Eternal God !” stammered my heart, and I 
hardly ventured to breathe. 

“ Vesuvius is in a Sunday humour !” said the 
guide, and beckoned us onwards. I had ima- 
gined that our journey was at an end, but the 
guide pointed forward over the plain, where the 
whole horizon was a brilliant fire, and where 
gigantic figures moved themselves like black 
shades upon the strong fire-ground. These 
were travellers who stood between us and the 
down-streaming lava. We had gone round the 
mountain in order to avoid this, and had as- 
cended it from the opposite, the eastern side. 
In its present restless state we could not ap- 
proach the crater itself, but could only stand 
where the lava-streams, like fountains of water, 
poured out of the sides of the mountain. We 
therefore left the crater on our left, advanced 
across the mountain plain, and climbed over 
the great blocks of lava, for here was neither 
road nor path. The pale moonlight, and the 
red glare of the torches upon this uneven 
ground, caused every shadow, and every cleft, 
to seem like a gulf, whilst we could see only 
the deep darkness. 

Again the loud thunder resounded below us, 
all became night, and a new eruption glared be- 
fore us. 

Only slowly, anu feeling before us with our 
hands at every step, crept we onwards towards 
our goal, and quickly we perceived that every 
thing which we touched was warm. Between 
the»blocks of lava it steamed forth hot as from 
an oven. 

A smooth plain now lay before us ; a lava- 
stream which was only about two days old; 
the upper rind of which was already black and 
hard from the operation of the air, although 
scarcely half an ell thick, under which lay, fath- 
oms deep, the glowing lava. Firm as the ice- 
rind on an inland lake, lay here the hardened 


crust above this sea of fire. Over this we had 
to pass, and, on the other aide, lay again the 
uneven blocks, upon which the strangers stood, 
and looked down upon the new torrent of lava, 
which they could see only from this point. 

We advanced singly, with the guides at our 
head, upon the crust of lava ; it glowed through 
the soles of our shoes ; and around us, in many 
places, where the heat had caused great chinks, 
we could see the red fire below us ; if the rind 
. had broken, we should have been plunged into 
the sea of fire ! We assayed every footstep be- 
fore we took it, and yet went on hastily in or- 
• der to pass this space, for it burned our feet, 
and produced the same effect as iron when it 
begins to cool and become black, which, when 
put in motion, instantly emits again fiery sparks ; 
on the snow, the foot-prints were black, here 
red. Neither of us spoke a word ; we had not 
imagined this journey to have been so fearful. 

An Englishman turned back to us with his 
guide ; he came up to me upon the very crust 
of the lava where we were surrounded by the 
fiery red rents. 

“Are there any English among youl” he in 
quired 

“ Italian only, and a Dane,” I replied 

“ The devil !” That was all that was said. 

We had now arrived at the great bloeks on 
which many strangers were standing. I also 
mounted one, and before me, down the mount- 
ain-side, glided slowly the fresh torrent of la- 
va ; it was like a redly glowing fiery slime, as 
of melted metal streaming from a furnace, and 
which spread it out below us far and wide, to a 
vast extent. No language, no picture, can rep- 
resent this in its greatness and its fearful effect. 
The very air appeared like fire and brimstone ; 
a thick steam floated upwards over the lava- 
stream, red with the strongly reflected light ; 
but all around was night. It thundered below 
in the mountain, and above us ascended the pil- 
lar of fire, with its glowing stars. Never be- 
fore had I felt myself so near to God. His om- 
nipotence and greatness filled*my soul. It was 
as if the fire around me burned out every weak- 
ness within me ; I felt strength and courage ; 
my immortal soul lifted its wings. 

“Almighty God!” breathed forth my spirit, 
“ I will be Thy apostle. fAmid the storms of 
the world I will sing Thy name, Thy might, 
and majesty ! Higher shall my song resound 
than that of the monk in his lonely cell. A 
poet I am ! Giv^ me strength ; preserve my 
soul pure, as the soul of Thy priest and of Na- 
ture’s ought to be !” I folded my hands in 
prayer, and, kneeling amid fire and cloud, pour- 
ed out my thanks to Him whose wonders and 
whose greatness spoke to my soul. 

We descended from the block of lava on 
which we ‘stood, and were scarcely more than 
a few paces from the place when, with a loud 
noise, it sank down through the broken crust, 
and a cloud of sparks whirled aloft in the air ; 
but I did not tremble ; I felt that my God was 
near to me : it was one of those moments in 
life in which the soul is conscious of the bliss 
of its immortality, in which there is neither 
fear nor pain, for it knows itself and its God. 

All around us sparks were cast upwards from 
small craters, and new eruptions followed ev 
ery minute from the large one ; they rushed 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


75 


into the air like a flock of birds which flew all 
at once out of a wood. Federigo was as much 
transported as I was, and our descent from the 
mountain in the loose ashes corresponded with 
our excited state of mind ; we flew ; it was a 
falling through the air: we slid, ran, sank. 
The ashes lay as soft as new-fallen snow upon 
the mountains. Wp needed only ten minutes 
for our descent, whereas we had requirid an 
hour in ascending. The wind had abated ; our 
asses were waiting for us below, and in the hut 
of the hermit sat our learned man, who had de- 
clined making the wearisome ascent with us. 

I felt myself animated anew. I turned my 
glance continually backwards ; the lava lay in the 
distance like colossal, falling stars ; the moon 
shone like day. We travelled along the edge 
. of the beautiful bay, and saw the reflection of 
the moon and the lava in two long stretches of 
light, the one red, the other blue, trembling on 
the mirror of the waters. I felt a strength in 
my soul, a clearness in my comprehension ; 
yes, if I may compare the small with the great, 
I was so far related to Boccacio, that the im- 
pression of a place, and its momentary inspira- 
tion, determined the whole operation of the 
spirit. Virgil’s grave saw his tears, the world 
his worth as a poet ; the greatness and terror 
of the volcano had chased aw r ay depression and 
doubt therefore, that which I saw this day 
and this evening is so vividly impressed upon 
my soul, therefore have I lingered over this de- 
scription, and have given that which then stamp- 
ed itself upon my breast, and which I other- 
wise must have spoken of at a later period. 

Our learned man invited us to accompany 
him home. At the first moment I folt some 
embarrassment, a strange reluctance, after the 
last scene between me and Santa, to see her 
again ; but the greater and more important de- 
cision in my soul soon anuihilated this lesser 
one. 

She took me kindly by the hand, poured us 
out wine, was natural and lively, so that at last 
I upbraided myself for my severe judgment upon 
her ; I felt that the impure thought existed in 
myself ; her compassion and sympathy, which 
she had evidently expressed so strongly, I had 
mistaken for unworthy passion. I sought now, 
therefore, by friendliness and jest, which was 
quite accordant with my present state of mind, 
to make up for my strange behaviour the day 
before. She seemed to understand- me, and I 
read in her glance a sister’s heart-felt sympa- 
thy and love. 

Signora Santa and her husband had never 
yet heard me improvise ; they urged me to do 
so. I sang of our ascent to Vesuvius, and ap- 
plause and admiration saluted me. That which 
Annunciata’s silent glance had spoken was 
poured in eloquent language from Santa’s lips, 
and they became doubly beautiful from these 
words : the eye burned with looks of gratitude 
into my very soul. 


CHAPTER XVIII.' 

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING MY DEDUT IN SAN 

CARLO. 

It was decided that I should make my debut 


as Improvisatore. Day by day I felt my cour- 
age to do so increase. In Maretti’s house, and 
in the few families whose acquaintance I had 
made there, I contributed, by my talent, to the 
entertainment of the company, and received 
the warmest praise and encouragement. It 
was a refreshment for my sick soul ; I experi- 
enced a joy therefrom, and a gratitude towards 
Providence, and nobody who could have read 
my thoughts would have called the fire which 
burned in my eyes vanity ; it was pure joy ! I 
. had really a sort of anxiety about the praise 
which they bestowed upon me ; I feared that I 
was unworthy of it, or that I should not always 
be able to preserve it. I felt it deeply, and 
ventured to express it, although it concerned 
me so much. Praise and encouragement are 
the best school for a noble soul ; where, on the 
contrary, severity and unjust blame either ren- 
der it timid, or else awaken defiance and scorn. 
I had learnqd this by my own experience. 

Maretti shewed me much attention, and went 
out of his way to serve me, and introduced me 
to persons who could be useful to me in the 
path which I had chosen for myself. Santa 
was infinitely mild and affectionate towards 
me ; and yet it seemed to me that a something 
within me ever repelled me from her. I always 
went with Federigo, or when I knew that they 
had company with them ; I feared lest the late 
scene should be renewed. Yet my eye dwelt 
upon her when she was not aware of it ; and I 
could not help thinking her beautiful. It hap- 
pened with me, as it so often happens in the 
world, people are jested with ; they are told 
that they love somebody that they have never 
thought about, nor have paid much attention 
to. But then comes the desire to see what 
there may be in this person, and why they 
should be fixed upon for our choice. One be- 
gins with curiosity, which becomes interest ; 
and one has had examples of interest in a per- 
son becoming love. With me, however, it only 
went no farther than to attention — a sort of 
outward regard which I had never known be- 
fore, but just sufficient to excite a beating of 
the heart — an anxiety which made me bashful, 
and kept me at a distance from her. 

I had now been two months in Naples ; on 
the next Sunday I was to make my debut in 
the great theatre of San Carlo. The opera of 
the Barber of Seville was given that night ; 
and, after this, I was to improvise on given 
subjects. I called myself Cenci ; I had not the 
boldness to have my family name placed on the 
bill. 

An extraordinary longing for the decisive day 
which was to establish my fame filled my soul j 
but with it there often went also an anxiety, a 
feverish terror, through my blood. Federigo 
comforted me : said that that came from the air 
— he, and almost every body else, felt the same ; 
it proceeded from Vesuvius, whose eruptions 
increased so greatly. The lava-stream was al- 
ready come below the mountain, and had taken 
the direction towards Torre del Annunciata. 
We could hear, in an evening, the thundering 
reports in the mountain ; the ah was filled with 
ashes, which lay thickly upon the trees and 
flowers. The top of the mountain stood envel- 
oped in tempest-brooding clouds, from which, 
with every eruption, darted forth the ziy-zag 


76 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


pale-blue lightning. Santa was.unwell, like the 
rest. “ It is fever,” she said, and her eye 
burned. She looked pale, and expressed her- 
self very much troubled about it ; because she 
must, and would, be in San Carlo on the even- 
ing of my debut. 

“Yes,” said she, “that I shall, even though 
I have a fever three times as severe the day 
after. I shall not remain away. One must 
venture one’s life for one's friends, even if they 
know nothing about it !” 

I passed my time now on the promenades, 
in the coffee-houses, and the various theatres. 
Again, my excited state of mind drove me to 
the churches, to the foot of the Madonna ; there 
I confessed every sinful thought, and prayed 
for courage, and for strength to follow the pow- 
erful impulses of my soul. “ Bella ragazza !” 
whispered the tempter in my ear, and my 
cheeks burned as I tore myself away. My 
spirit and my blood strove for the mastery ; I 
felt, as it were, a period of transition in my in- 
dividual I. The next Sunday evening I regard- 
ed as the culmination-point. 

“ We must just for once go to the great gam- 
bling-house,” Federigo had said many a time. 
“ A poet must know every thing !” 

We had not been there ; and I felt a kind of 
bashfulness in going. Bernardo had not said 
of me, without some degree of justice, that my 
bringing up with the good Domenica, and in the 
Jesuits’ school, had infused a little goat’s milk 
in my blood — cowardice, as he had also offen- 
sively called it. 

I needed more decision ; I must live more in 
the world if I meant to describe it ! These 
thoughts passed impressively through my mind, 
as, somewhat late in the evening, I went to the 
most celebrated gaming-house in Naples. 

“ I will go up there, just because I feel the 
want of courage to do so !” said I within my- 
self. “ I need not play ; Federigo and my 
other friends will say that I have done very ra- 
tionally.” « 

Yet how weak one can be ! My heart beat 
all the time as if I were about to commit a sin, 
whilst my reason whispered to me that there 
really was no harm in it at all. Swiss guards 
stood at the doors ; the staircase was magnifi- 
cently lighted. In the lobby stood a crowd of 
servants, who took from me my hat and stick, 
and opened the door for me, which revealed to 
me a suit of well-lighted rooms. There was a 
large assembly of people, gentlemen and ladies. 
Endeavouring not to appear embarrassed, I 
went quickly forward into the first saloon, and 
no one took the least notice of me. The com- 
pany sat around the great gaming-table, with 
piles of colonati and louis-d’or lying before 
them. 

A lady advanced in years, wh'o certainly had 
once been handsome, sat with painted cheeks, 
and richly apparelled, grasping the cards in her 
hands, whilst she fixed a falcon glance upon 
the piles of gold. Several young and very love- 
ly girls stood in very confidential conversation 
with some gentlemen — all of them the beauti- 
ful daughters of sin. Even the old lady with 
the falcon eye had once won hearts, aa she could 
now win with their colour. 

In one of the smallest of the chambers there 
stood a red and green diced tal le. I saw that 


they set one or more colonati upon one of these 
colours ; the balls were rolled, and, if they lay 
upon the selected colour, the stake was won 
double. It went on like the beating of my pulse ; 
gold and silver played over the board. I also 
took out my purse, threw a colonati upon the 
table, which fell on the red colour. The man 
who stood before it looked, at me with an in- 
quiring glance, as to whether it should remain 
lying there. I nodded involuntarily ; the ball 
rolled, and my money was doubled. I became 
quite embarrassed thereby; it remained lying 
there, and the ball rolled again and again. For- 
tune favoured my play ; my blood w T as put into 
motion. It was only my lucky piece which I 
ventured ; presently there lay a heap of silver 
before me, and the louis-d’or shone beside it as 
a balance. I swallowed a glass of wine, for my 
mouth w r as parched. The great heap of silver 
increased more and more, for I took none of it 
away. The ball rolled again, and, with the 
most cold blooded-mien, the banker swept the 
whole glittering heap to himself. My beautiful 
golden dream w r as at an end ; but it also awoke 
me. I played no more ; I had only lost the 
colonati which I had risked at first. This con- 
soled me, and I went into the next saloon. 

Among the young ladies there was one who 
attracted my attention, by a wonderful likeness 
to Annunciata, only she was taller and stouter. 
My eye rested continually upon her. She ob- 
served it, stepped up to me, and, pointing to a 
little table, asked whether we should make up 
a party. I excused myself, and returned to the 
room from which I was just come ; she follow- 
ed me with her eye. In the innermost room, a 
number of young men were playing at billiards ; 
they were playing without their coats, although 
ladies were in their company. I did not re- 
member what freedom was permitted in- this 
company. Before the door, but with his back 
towards me, stood a young man of fine figure ; 
he steadied the queue on the ball, and made a 
masterly stroke, for which he was applauded. 
The lady even, w r ho had attracted my attention, 
nodded kindly, and seemed to say something 
amusing. He turned himself round, and waft- 
ed her a kiss with his hand, whilst she jesting- 
ly struck him on the shoulder. My heart beat ; 
it was actually Bernardo ! 

I had not courage to advance nearer, yet I 
desired to have perfect knowiedge. I stole 
along the wall towards the open door of a large, 
half-lighted saloon, where, unseen myself, I 
could more narrowiy observe aim. A twilight 
pervaded this apartment ; red and wiiite glass 
lamps cast a faint light ; an artificial garden 
adjoined it, adorned with bowers, which, how- 
ever, were only formed with painted, leaden 
foliage, surrounded by beautiful orange-trees , 
stuffed parrots, with brilliant plumage, swung 
among the branches, whilst a hand-organ played, 
in low tones, soft, graceful melodies, that went 
to the heart. A mild coolness was wafted 
through the open door from the arcade. Scarce- 
ly had I cast a hasty glance over the whole, 
when Bernardo approached with light foot- 
steps : I drew myself mechanically into an ar- 
bour; he saw me standing there, smiled and 
nodded to me, and, hastening into the next ar- 
bour, threw himself upon a seat, and hummed 
an air half aloud. A thousand emotions agita- 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


77 




ted my breast : — he there 1 I so near him 'l I 
felt a trembling in all my limbs, and was obliged 
to seat myself. The fragrant flowers, the half- 
suppressed music, the twilight, even the soft, 
elastic sofa, all carried me into a sort of dream- 
world, and only in such a one could I expect to 
meet with Bernardo. Whilst I thus sat, the 
young lady whom I have already mentioned 
entered the room and approached the arbour 
where I was ; seeing this, Bernardo hummed 
aloud, and she, recognising his voice, turned 
towards him. I heard a kiss ; it burned into 
my soul. 

Him — the faithless, fickle Bernardo, had An- 
nunciata preferred to me ! Already, so shortly 
after the happiness of his love, he could forget 
her, could consecrate his lips to an image of 
beauty formed of clay ! I darted out of the 
room, out of the house ; my heart trembled with 
indignation and pain. I got no rest till morning. 

The day was now come on the evening of 
which I was to make my debut in the theatre 
of San Carlo. The thoughts of this and the 
adventures of yesterday had set my whole soul 
in motion. Never had my heart prayed more in- 
wardly to the Madonna and the saints. I went 
to church, received the sacrament from the 
priest ; prayed that it might strengthen and 
purify me, and felt its wonderful power ! One 
thought only seized disturbingly upon the rest 
which was so necessary for me, and this was, 
whether Annunciata were here — whether Ber- 
nardo had followed her. Federigo brought me 
the certain intelligence that she was not here ; 
lie, on the contrary, as the list of arrivals shew- 
ed, had been here four days. Santa, I knew, 
was ill of fever ; but, notwithstanding, she in- 
sisted on going to the theatre. The play-bills 
were pasted up; Federigo told histories, and 
Vesuvius threw up fire and ashes more violent- 
ly than usual ; all was in activity. 

The opera had begun when the carriage con- 
veyed me to the theatre. Had the Fates sat at 
my side, and my life’s thread been between the 
sherars, I believe I should have exclaimed, “ Cut 
away !” My prayer and my thought were, “ God 
lets all things be for the best.” 

In the green-room I found a crowd of artists 
of the stage, and some fine spirits, and even an 
improvisatore, and a professor of the French 
language, Santini, with whom Maretti had made 
me acquainted. The conversation was easy ; 
they jested and laughed ; the singers in “ The 
Barber” came and went as if it were from a 
party ; the stage was their accustomed home. 

“ We shall give you a theme,” said Santini ; 
“ oh, a hard nut to crack ; but it will succeed. 
I remember how I trembled the first time that 
I made my appearance ; but it succeeded ! I 
had my tricks — little innocent artifices which 
reason permits ; certain little stanzas about 
love, and antiquity, the beauty of Italy, poetry 
and art, which one knows how to bring in, to 
say nothing of a few standing poems ; that is a 
matter of course !” 

I assured him that I had never thought of 
preparing myself in this way. 

“ Yeg, that one says,” said he, laughing, “ but 
good ! good ! You are a ratianal young man ; 
it will succeed gloriously with you !” 

The piece came to an end, and I stood alone 
'ipon the empty stage. 


“ The scaffold is ready !” sa d the manager, 
laughing, and gave the sign tc the mechanist 
The curtain drew up. 

I saw only a black abyss, could only distin- 
guish the first heads in the orchestra and the 
first boxes of the five heights in that lofty build- 
ing ; a thick, warm air wafted towards me. I 
felt a strong resolution within me which was 
amazing to myself; to be sure, my soul was ia 
a state of excitement, but it was, as it ought to 
be, flexible and susceptible of every thought. 
As the air is the clearest when in winter se- 
vere cold penetrates it, thus felt I an elasticity 
and clearness all at once. All my spiritual abil- 
ities were awake, as in this case they must and 
should be. 

Any one could give me a subject on a slip of 
paper, upon which I was to improvise, a secre- 
tary of the police having in the first place ex- 
amined that nothing contrary to the law T was 
suggested. • From these subjects I could make 
my selection. In the first I read “ il cavalier 
servente ;” but I had never rightly thought over 
this kind of business. I knew, certainly, that 
the cicisbeo, as they are also called, was the 
knight of the present time, who, now that he 
can no longer enter the lists for his lady, is her 
faithful attendant, who stands in the place of 
her husband. I recollected the well-known son- 
net, “ Femina di costume , di maniere but at 
the moment not a thought wduld arise in my 
mind to embellish this subject. I opened witfe 
impatience the second paper ; in it was written 
“ Capri ;” this, also, was embarrassing to me 
I had never been upon the island, had only seer 
its beautiful mountain outline from Naples 
What I did not know I could not sing ; I pre 
ferred rather “ II cavalier servente.” 

I opened the third paper, and here I read, 
“ The Catacombs of Naples ;” neither had I 
been here ; but with the word catacombs a life’s 
moment stood before me ; the ramble in my 
childhood with Federigo, and our adventure, 
arose livingly before my soul. I struck a few 
notes ; the verses came of themselves ; I rela- 
ted what I had felt and gone through, only that 
it was in the catacombs of Naples ‘instead of 
Rome. I seized for a second time the thread of 
happiness, and repeated, stormy plaudits salu- 
ted me ; they streamed like champagne through 
my blood. 

They gave me now as a subject, “Fata Mor- 
gana ;” I had not seen this beautiful ethereal 
appearance, peculiar to Sicily and Naples ; but 
I knew very well the beauty fairy Phantasy, 
which dwelt in those splendid castles ; I could 
describe my own dream-world, in which floated, 
also, her gardens and castles. In my heart, in- 
deed, abode life’s most beautiful “ Fata Mor- 
gana.” 

I rapidly thought over my subject ; a little 


* This sonnet is i.i W. Muller’s Rom, Romer, und Ro- 
merin. The cicisbeo was established in Genoa, among the 
merchants. Business took these men much from home, and, 
in order not to confine their wives to the house, they were 
placed under the care of a friend, to become their attendant ; 
commonly this friend was a priest. Afterwards it became 
the fashion : nobody could do without a cicisbeo. The con. 
nexion was noble and pure, and there are instances in which 
the dead have been praised on their monuments for the ex- 
act and faithful fulfilment of their duty as cicisbeos. From 
morning to night must the cicisbeo attend his lady, must 
shew her the greatest attention, and, on the contrary, be iu 
different to others : this is his duty . — Authors Note. 


78 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 




story fashioned itself therewith, and new ideas 
presented themselves in my song. I began 
with a little description of the ruined church 
at Posilippo, without precisely mentioning its 
name. This romantic house had captivated 
me, and I gave a picture of the church, which 
now' had become the home of the fisherman ; a 
little child lay asleep on his bed below the win- 
dow on which the picture, of Saint George was 
painted on the glass. In the still moonlight 
night a beautiful little girl came to him, she 
was as lovely and as light as air, and had beau- 
tiful, bright-coloured wings upon her shoulders. 
They played together, and she led him out into 
the green vine-grove, shew'ed him a thousand 
glorious things which he had never seen before ; 
they w'ent out into the mountains, which open- 
ed themselves into large, splendid churches, 
full of pictures and altars ; they sailed upon the 
beautiful blue sea over against the smoking Ve- 
suvius, and the mountain appeared as if of glass ; 
they saw how the fires burned and raged with- 
in it ; they went below the earth and visited 
the old cities, of which he had heard tell, and 
all the people w r ere living ; he saw r their wealth 
and pomp, greater even than w T e have any con- 
ception of from their ruins. She loosened her 
wings, bound them upon his shoulders, for she, 
without these, was light as air, and needed 
them not. Thus flew they over the orange- 
woods, over the mountains, the luxuriant green 
Marshes to ancient Rome, amid the dead Cam- 
pagna ; flew over the beautiful blue sea, far 
past Capri, rested upon the crimson, shining 
clouds, and the little girl kissed him, called her- 
self Fancy, and shewed him her mother's beau- 
tiful castle, built of air and sunbeams, and there 
they played so happily and so joyously ! But, 
as the boy grew up % the little girl came to him 
less frequently, peeped only at him in the moon- 
light between the green vine-leaves, and the 
oranges nodded to him, and he became troubled 
and full of longing. But he must now help his 
father on the sea, learn to work the oars, to 
pull the ropes, and steer the boat in the storm ; 
but all the more he grew, all the more turned 
his thoughts towards his beloved playfellow', 
who never more visited him. Late in the moon- 
light nights, when he lay upon the quiet sea, 
he let the oars rest, and down in the deep, clear 
wrater, he saw the sandy, seaw r eed-strewn bot- 
tom of the ocean. Fancy then looked upwards 
at him, with her dark, beautiful eyes, and seem- 
ed to beckon and call him downward to her. 

One morning many fishermen stood together 
on the shore. Floating in the ascending beams 
of the sun, not far from Capri, lay a new, won- 
drously beautiful island formed of rainbow col- 
ours, with glittering towers, stars, and clear, 
purple-tinted clouds. “ Fata Morgana /” ex- 
claimed they all, and triumphed joyfully in the 
charming apparition ; but the young fisher knew 
it well : there had he played ; there had he 
abode with his beautiful Fancy : a strange mel- 
ancholy and yearning seized upon his soul ; but, 
amid his tears, grew dim, and vanished the 
whole well-known image. 

In the clear moonlight evening again ascend- 
ed, from the promontory on which the fisher- 
men stood, castles and islands fashioned of 
brightness and of air ; they saw a boat w'ith the 
speed of an arrow dart towards the strangely 


floating land and vanish ; and suddenly was ex- 
tinguished the whole creation of light, and, in- 
stead, a cold-black cloud spread itself over the 
sea, a water-spout advanced along the peaceful 
surface, which now began to heave its dark 
green billows. When this had vanished, the 
ocean was again calm ; the moon shone upon 
the azure waters, hut they saw no boat ; the 
young fisher had vanished — vanished with the 
beautiful Fata Morgana ! 

. The same applause as before greeted me 
again ; my courage and my inspiration increas- 
ed. The next subject which was given furnish- 
ed recollections out of my own life, which it 
was only needful for me to relate. I was to 
improvise of Tasso. He was myself; Leonora 
was Annunciata ; we saw each other at the 
court of Ferrara. I suffered with him in cap- 
tivity ; breathed again freedom with death in 
my heart, as I looked from Sorrento over the 
billowy sea towards Naples ; sat with him un- 
der the oak at the Convent of St. Onophrius ; 
the bell of the Capitol sounded for his corona- 
tion-feast, but the angel of death came and first 
placed upon his head the crown of immortality. 

My heart beat violently ; I was engrossed, 
was carried away by the flight of my thoughts. 
Yet was one more poem given to me, it was 
“The Death of Sappho.” The pangs of jeal- 
ousy I had felt as I remembered Bernardo ; 
Annunciata’s kiss upon his brow burned into 
my soul. Sappho’s beauty was that of Annun- 
ciata ; but the sufferings of her love were my 
own. The ocean waters closed over Sappho ! 

My poem had called forth tears ; the most ex- 
traordinary applause resounded from all sides, 
and after the curtain had fallen, I was twice 
called for A happiness, a nameless joy, filled 
my soul, and yet seemed so to oppress my 
heart till it was ready to break ; and when I 
had left the stage amid the embraces and con- 
gratulations of my friends and acquaintances I 
burst into tears, into violent, convulsive sobs. 

With Santini, Federigo, and some of the 
singers, a very lively evening was spent ; they 
drank to my well-being, and I was happy, but 
my lips were sealed ! 

“He is a pearl,” exclaimed Federigo in his 
gay delight, speaking of me ; “ his only fault is, 
that he is a Joseph the second, whom we Danes, 
for the sake of clearness, should call Joseph the 
son of Jacob ! Enjoy life, Antonio ; pluck the 
rose before it be withered !” 

It was late when 1 reached home ; and with 
prayers and thanks to the Madonna, and Jesus 
Christ, who had not forsaken me, I was soon 
deeply and soundly asleep. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

# 

SANTA THE ERUPTION — OLD CONNEXIONS. 

The next morning I stood before Federigo a 
new-born man ; I was able to express my de- 
light ; I could not do it the evening before. 
Life around me interested me more ; I felt 
myself, as it were, ennobled ; I seemed to 
have become more mature through the dew 
of encouragement which had fallen upon my 
life’s tree. 

It was necessary, also, that I should pay a 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


79 


visit to Santa ; she had probably heard me the | 
evening before ; I longed also to hear her 
praise, of which I was sure. 

Maretti received me with rapture, but Santa, 

I was told, had through the whole night, after- 
she returned from the theatre, suffered severely 
from fever ; at this moment she was asleep, 
and sleep would be beneficial to her. I was 
made to promise that I would call again in the 
evening. I dined with Federigo and my new 
friends°; health after health was drunk : the 
white lacrymcz Chris ti alternated with the wine 
of Calabria. I would not drink any more : my 
blood was in flame, champagne must cool it. 

We separated gaily, and full of delight. 
When we came out into the street, we found 
the atmosphere lighted up by Vesuvius, and 
the mighty streams of lava. Several of the 
party drove out to see the fearful, but glorious 
spectacle. I went to Santa, for it was a little 
past the Ave Maria. I found that she was 
quite alone, much better : the servant said the 
sleep had strengthened her : I was permitted 
to see her, but nobody else. 

I was introduced into a beautiful, snug little 
room, the long thick window-curtains of which 
■were drawm ; a lovely marble statue of Cupid 
whetting his arrow, and an argand lamp, whose 
light gave a magical colouring to the whole, 
were the first things which I saw. Santa lay, 
in a light wrapping-dress, on a soft, silken 
sofa : she half rose as I entered, held with one 
hand a large shawl around her, and extended 
the other to me. 

“Antonio!” said she, “it has succeeded 
gloriously ! Fortunate man ! you have capti- 
vated every one ! Oh, yOu know not what 
anxiety I had about you : how my heart beat ; 
and with what delight I again breathed when 
you so far exceeded my greatest expectation !” 

I bowed, and inquired after her health. She 
gave me her hand, and assured me that she 
was better, “Yes, much better,” said she ; and 
added, “ you look like some one newly created ! 
You looked handsome, very handsome ! When 
you were carried away by your, inspiration, you 
looked quite ideal. It w*as you yourself that I 
saw in every poem, in the little boy with the 
painter, -in the Catacombs, methought — you 
and Federigo !” 

“ It was so,” said I, interrupting her ; “ I 
have passed through all that I have sung.” 

“ Yes,” replied she, “ you yourself have 
passed through all — the bliss of love, the pain 
of love — may you be happy as you deserve !” 

I told her what a change there seemed to be 
in my whole being — how entirely differently life 
seemed now to present itself to me ; and she 
grasped my hand, and looked as if into my 
soul, with h£r dark, expressive eyes. She was 
lovely, more lovely than common : a fine crim- 
son glowed upon her cheeks : the dark, glossy 
hair was put smoothly back from the beauti- 
fully formed, brow. The luxuriant figure re- 
sembled an image of Juno, beautiful as a Phid- 
ias could form it. 

“Yes,” said she, “you shall live for the 
world : you are its property : you will rejoice 
and captivate millions ; let not, therefore, the 
thought of one single one seize distinctively on 1 
your happiness. You are worthy of love : you 
captivate with your spirit, and with your talent, ! 


I with — ” She panted ; and then, drawing me 
towards her, continued, “ We must talk seri- 
ously : we have,#hdeed, not been able rightly 
to talk together since that evening, when sor- 
row lay so heavily upon your soul ! You 
seemed then — yes, what shall I call it 1 — to 
have misunderstood me — ” 

My heart had done so ; and very often had 1 
reproached myself for it. “ I am not deserving 
of your goodness,” said I, impressing a kiss 
upon her hand, and looked into her dark eyes 
with a purity of soul and thought. Her glance 
still burned and rested, seriously, almost pene- 
tratingly, upon me. Had a stranger seen us, 
he would have discovered shadow where there 
was only purity and light. It was, my heart 
could assert it aloud, as if here met a brother 
and sister, eye and thought. 

She was greatly excited. I saw her bosom 
heave violently : she loosened a scarf to breathe 
more freely. “You are deserving of love !” 
said she. “ Soul and beauty are deserving of 
any woman’s love !” 

She laid her arm on my shoulder, and looked 
again into my face ; and then continued, with 
an indescribably eloquent smile, “ And I can 
believe that you only dream in an ideal world ! 
You are possessed of delicacy and good sense ; 
and these always gain the victory. Therefore, 
Antonio, are you dear to me ; therefore is your 
love my dream, my thought !” She drew me 
towards her : her lips were like fire, that flowed 
into my very soul ! 

Eternal Mother of God ! Thy holy image, 
at that moment, fell down from the wall where 
it stood above my head. It was not a mere 
accident ! No ! thou touchedst my brow : tim'd 
didst seize me, as I was about to sink in the 
whirlpool of passion ! 

“No! no!” exclaimed I, starting up: my 
blood was like seething lava. 

“ Antonio !” cried she, “ kill me ! kill me ! 
but do not leave me.” Her cheeks, her eyes, 
her glance, and expression was passion ; and 
yet she was beautiful — an image of beauty, 
painted in flame. I felt a tremour in all my 
nerves ; and, without replying, I left the apart- 
ment, and rushed down the steps, as if a dark 
spirit had pursued me. 

When I reached the street, all seemed in 
flame, like my blood. The current of the air 
wafted forward heat. Vesuvius stood in glow- 
ing fire — eruptions in rapid succession lit up 
every thing around. Air ! air ! demanded my 
heart. I hastened to the Molo, in the open bay, 
and seated myself exactly where the waves 
broke on the shore. The blood seemed to 
force itself to my eyes : I cooled my brow with 
the salt water ; tore open my coat, that every 
breath of air might cool me ; but all was flame 
— the sea even shone like the fire of the red 
lava, which rolled down the mountain. Which 
ever way I looked, I saw her standing, as if 
painted in flame ; and looking into* my soul 
with those beseeching, burning gleams of fire. 
“Kill me! but leave me not!” resounded in 
my ears. I closed my eyes, turned my thoughts 
towards God ; but they relapsed again : it was 
as if the flames of sin had scorched the wings 
| of my soul. An evil conscience must indeed 
s crush the spirit, when thoughts of sin can thus 
! enfeeble both mind and body. 


80 


THE IMPROVISATORS 


“Will Excellenza have a boat to Torre del 
Annunciatal” said a voice close beside me; 
and the name of Annunciata recalled conscious- 
ness to my soul. 

“The lava-stream runs three ells in a min- 
ute,” said the fellow, who with his oar held 
the boat firm to the land : “ in half an hour we 
can be there.” 

“ The sea will cool me,” thought I, and 
sprang into the boat. The fellow stood from 
land ; spread out his sail ; and now we flew, 
as if borne onward by the wind, across the 
blood-red, glowing water. A cool wind blew 
on my cheek, I breathed more freely, and felt 
myself calmer and better, as we approached 
land on the opposite side of the bay. 

“ Never again will I see Santa,” I firmly de- 
termined in my heart. “ I will fly the serpent 
of beauty, which sliews to me the fruit of 
knowledge. Thousands would ridicule me for 
doing so ; but rather their laughter than the 
lamenting cry of my own heart. Madonna, 
thou didst permit thy holy image to fall from 
the wall, that thereby I might be preserved 
from falling!” Deeply did I feel her protect- 
ing grace. 

A wonderful joy now penetrated me : all that 
was noble and good sang hymns of victory in 
my heart : I was again the child of soul and 
thought. “ Father, direct Thou every thing as 
is best for me !” I ejaculated in prayer; and, 
full of the enjoyment of life, as if my happiness 
was established for ever, I rambled through 
the streets of the little town to the highroad. 

Every thing was in motion ; carriages and 
cabriolets laden with people drove past me ; 
they shouted, huzzaed, and sang, and every 
thing around was lit up by the flame. The tor- 
rent of lava had approached a small city which 
lay upon the side of the mountain ; families 
fled therefrom. I saw women with little chil- 
dren at the breast, and with small bundles 
under their arms, heard their lamentations, 
and could not help dividing the small sum 1 
had with me with the first that I met. I fol- 
lowed. the crowd up among the vineyards, 
which w f cre inclosed with white walls, and to- 
wards the direction which the lava took. A 
large vine-field lay between us and it, and the 
torrent, like red-hot, fiery slime many fathoms 
deep, came moving itself onward, and over- 
whelming buildings and walls in its course ; 
the cries of the fugitives, the exultation of the 
strangers at this imposing scene, the shouting 
of coachmen, and the venders of various wares, 
mingled strangely together, whilst groups of 
drunken peasants, who stood in crowds around 
the brandy-sellers, people in carriages, and 
people on horseback, all lighted up with the red 
fire-lights, formed a picture of which, in its 
completeness, no description can be given. 
One might advance quite close to the lava 
which had its determined course ; many peo- 
ple stuck in their sticks, or else pieces of 
money, wflrich they took out again, attached to 
a piece of lava. 

Fearfully beautiful w T as it when a part of the 
fiery mass, from its size, tore itself loose ; it 
was like the breakers of the sea : the descend- 
ing piece lay like a beaming star outside the 
Stream. The air first of all cooled the project- 
ing corners ; they became black, and the whole 


piece appeared like dazzling gold, inclosed in a 
coal-black net. There had been hung on one 
of the vines an image of the Virgin, in the 
hope that the fire would become suspended be- 
fore the holy form ; but ‘it advanced onward in 
the same uniform course. The heat singed 
the leaves on the tall trees, which bowed dowm 
their crown-like heads to the fiery mass, as if 
they w r ould beseech for mercy. Full of expec- 
tation, many a glance rested on the image of 
the Virgin, but the tree bow6d itself deeply 
with her before the red fire-stream ; it w as 
only distant a few ells. At that moment I saw 
a Capuchin monk close beside me throw his 
arms aloft and exclaim that the image of the 
Madonna caught fire. “ Save her !” cried he, 

“ so wall she save you from the flames of the 
fire !” 

All trembled and drew back when, at that 
moment, a w r oman started forward, cried aloud 
the name of the Madonna, and hastened to- 
wards the glowing death. Whilst this was 
doing, I saw a young officer on horseback, 
with his drawn sw r ord drive her back, al- 
though the fire stood like a w r all of rock by 
his side. • 

“Mad woman !” exclaimed he, “Madonna 
needs not thy help. She wills that her badly- 
painted picture, consecrated by the hand of a 
sinner, shall be burned in the fire.” 

It w r as Bernardo ; I knew his voice ; his 
quick decision had saved the life of a fellow- 
creature, and his speech prevented all offence. 

I could not but esteem him, and washed in my 
heart that we had never been separated. But 
my neart beat more quickly, and I had neither 
courage nor desire ‘to see him face to face. 

The fire-stream swallowed up the trees and 
the Madonna image ; I withdrew to some dis- 
tance, and leaned involuntarily against a wall, 
where several strangers sat around a table. 

“Antonio! is it actually tlioul” I heard a 
voice exclaim ; I fancied that it w r as Bernardo ; 
a hand pressed mine, it w T as Fabiani, the son-in- 
law of Excellenza, the husband of Francesca, 
who baa known me as a child, and w r ho now, 
as I must imagine from the letter which I had 
received, was angry with me like the others, 
and, like them, had cast me off. 

“ Nay, that we should meet here !” said he. 
“ It will delight Francesca to see you ! But it 
is not handsome of you that you have not been 
to visit us. We have actually been eight days 
at Castelamare !” 

“ I knew nothing of that,” replied I ; “ be- 
sides — ” 

“ Yes, all at once you are become quite an- 
other person ; have been in love, and,” added 
he, more gravely, “ have also fought a duel, on 
which account you have regularly eloped, 
which I cannot at all commend. Excellenza 
has just now announced it to us, and w r e were 
astonished at it. He has, however, written to 
you, has he not, and that truly not in the mild- 
est manner 1” 

My heart beat violently ; I felt myself 
thrown back into the fetters wdiich benefit 
had riveted upon me, and expressed the dis- 
tress which I had experienced in being cast off 
by them all. 

“Nay, nay, Antonio!” said Fabiani, “ it is 
not so bad as that. Come with me to my car- 


THE IMPROVJSATORE. 


81 


riage. Francesca will be astonished to see 
you this evening ; we shall soon be at Castel- 
amare, and we will find a place in the hotel 
for you. You shall tell me what you have 
seen. It is a sin to despair. Excellenza is 
violent ; you know him ; but all will be right 
again.” 

“No, that it cannot be,” replied I, half 
aloud, falling back again into my former suf- 
fering. 

“ It shall and will !” said Fabiani with deter- 
mination, and led me towards his carriage. 

He' required me to tell him everything. 

“But you are not going to turn improvis- 
atore?” asked he, with a smile, wffien I told 
him of my flight, and of Fulvia in the robber’s 
cave. 

“ It sounds so poetic,” said he, “ as if it were' 
your fancy, and not your memory, that played 
the principal part.” 

I shewed him Excellenza’s letter. “ Severe, 
too severe !” said he, when he had read it ; 
“ but cannot you, however, see by it how much 
he thinks of you, and therefore it was so seri- 
ous. But you really have not made your ap- 
pearance in the theatre 1” 

“Yesterday evening,” replied I. 

“ That was too daring,” interrupted he ; 
“ and how did It go off!” 

“ Gloriously ! most fortunately !” returned I, 
joyfully. “ I received the greatest applause — < 
was twice ca’led for.” 

“ Is it possible ? You have succeeded 1” 

There was a doubt, a surprise in these w r ords 
which wounded me deeply, but the obligations 
of gratitude bound my lips, as well as my 
thoughts. 

I felt a sort of embarrassment in presenting 
myself to Francesca ; I knew, indeed, how 
grave and severe she could be. Fabiani con- 
soled me, half jestingly, by saying that there 
6hould be neither confession nor castigatory 
sermon, although I had. actually so well de- 
served it. 

We reached the hotel. 

“Ah, Fabiani!” exclaimed a young, hand- 
somely dressed and curled gentleman, who 
sprang forward to meet us. “ It is well you 
are come, your Signora is quite impatient. 
Ah !” said he, breaking off the moment he saw 
me, “ you are bringing the young improvisatore 
with you ! Cenci, is it not?” 

“Cenci?” repeated Fabiani, and looked at 
me in amazement. 

“ The name under which I appeared in pub- 
lic,” I replied. 

“Indeed!” said he; “well, that was very 
rational.” 

“ He can sing about love,” said the stranger ; 

“ you should have heard him in San Carlo last 
evening. That is a talent !” 

He offered me his hand obligingly, and 
shewed his delight in making my agreeable 
acquaintance. 

“ I shall sup with you this evening,” said he 
to Fabiani, “ and invite myself on account of 
your excellent singer, and you and your wife 
will not refuse me.” 

“You are always welcome, as you know 
very well,” returned Fabiani. 

“ But you must, however, introduce me to 
the stranger gentleman,” said he. 

L 


“ There is no need of ceremony here,” said 
Fabiani, “ we, he, and I are sufficiently ac- 
quainted ; my friends need not be introduced 
to him. It will be a great honour to him ta 
make your acquaintance.” 

I bow'ed, but I w r as not at all satisfied with 
the mode in which Fabiani had expressed him- 
self. 

“ Well, then, I must introduce myself!” said 
the stranger ; “ you, I have already had the 
honour of knowing ; my name is Gennaro, offi- 
cer in King Ferdinand’s Guard ; and,” added 
he, laughing, “ of a good Neapolitan family ! 
Many people give it even number one. It may 
be that this is right ; at least, my aunts make 
very much of that ! Inexpressibly delightful is 
it to me to make the acquaintance of a young 
man of your talent, your — ” 

“ Be quiet !” interrupted Fabiani ; “ he is not 
accustomed to such speeches ; now you know 
one another. Francesca waits for us ; there 
will now be a reconciliation-scene between 
her and your improvisatore : perhaps you will 
here find occasion to make use of your elo- 
quence.” 

I wished that Fabiani had not spoken in this 
way ; but they two were friends, and how could 
Fabiani place himself in my painful position 1 
He led us in to Francesca ; I involuntary held 
back a few steps. 

“At length, my excellent Fabiani !” she ex- 
claimed. 

“ At length,” repeated he, “ and I bring two 
guests with me.” 

“ Antonio !” exclaimed she, and then again 
her voice sank ; “ Signore Antonio !” 

She fixed a severe, grave glance upon me 
and Fabiani. I bowed, wished to kiss her 
hand, but she seemed not to observe it — offer- 
ed it to Gennaro, and expressed the great pleas- 
ure she had in seeing him to supper. 

“ Tell me about the eruption,” said she to 
her husband ; “ has the lava-stream changed 
its direction ?” * 

Fabiani told her about it, and ended by say- 
ing that there he had met with me ; that I was 
his guest, and that now mercy must be shewn 
before judgment. 

“ Yes,” exclaimed Gennaro, “ I cannot at all 
imagine how he can have sinned ; but every 
thing must be forgiven to genius.” 

“You are in your very best humour,” said 
she, and nodded very graciously to me, whilst 
she assured Gennaro that she had really nothing 
to forgive me. “What do you bring us for 
news ?” inquired she from him. “ What do the 
French papers say ? and where did you spend 
last evening?” 

The first questioh he quickly dismissed ; the 
second he discussed with great interest. 

“ I wras in the theatre,” said he ; “heard the 
last act of the Barber ! Josephine sang like aD 
angel, but when one has once heard Annuncia- 
ta, nothing can satisfy one. I went there prin- 
cipally to hear the improvisatore !” 

“ Did he satisfy you?” inquired Francesca. 

“ He surpassed my — nay, every body’s high- 
est expectations,” replied he. “ It is not said 
to flatter him ; and of what consequence, in- 
deed, would my poor criticism be to him, but 
that was indeed improvisation ! He was thor- 
oughly master of his art, and carried us all 


82 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


along with him. There was feeling, — there 
was fancy. He sang about Tasso, about Sap- 
pho, about the Catacombs ; they were poems 
which were worthy of being preserved !” 

“ A beautiful talent !” said Francesca ; “one 
eannot sufficiently admire it. I wish I had been 
there.” 

“ But we have the man with us,” said Gen- 
naro, and»pointed to me. 

“ Antonio !” exclaimed she, inquiringly ; 
“has he improvised!” 

“ Yes, like a master,” replied Gennaro ; “ but 
you know him already, and must therefore have 
heard him.” 

“ Yes, very often,” returned she, smiling ; 
“ we admired him always as a little boy.” 

“ I myself put the wreath on his head the 
first time that I heard him,” said Fabiani, like- 
wise in jest. “ Fie sang about my lady-love be- 
fore we were married ; and, as a lover, I thus 
worshipped her in his song ! But now to sup- 
per ! Gennaro, you will conduct my Frances- 
ca ; and, as we have no more ladies, I will take 
the improvisatore. Signore Antonio ! I request 
your hand.” 

He then conducted me after the others into 
the supper-room. 

“But you have never told me about Cenci, 
or whatever you call the young gentleman,” 
said Gennaro. 

“ We call him Antonio,” replied Fabiani ; . 
“ we did not really at all know that it was he 
who was to make his d£but as improvisatore. 
You see this is exactly the reconciliation-scene 
of which I spoke. You must know that he is, 
in a manner, a son of the house. Is it not so, 
Antonio 1” 

I bowed with a grateful look, and Fabiani 
continued, “ He is an excellent person ; there 
is not a stain upon his character ; but he will 
not learn any thing.” 

“ But if he can now read every thing much 
better out of the great book of Nature, why 
should he not do so 1” 

“You must not spoil him with your praise,” 
said the Signora, jestingly ; “ we believed that 
he was sitting deep in his classics, and physics, 
and mathematics, and instead of that he was 
over head and ears in love with a young singer 
from Naples.” 

“ That shews that he has feeling 1” said Gen- 
naro. “ And was she handsome 1 What was 
her name!” 

“ Annunciata,” said Fabiani*; “ of extraordi- 
nary talent, and a very distinguished woman.” 

“ I myself have been in love with her,” said 
Gennaro. “He has good taste. Here is to 
Annunciata’s health, Sir Improvisatore !” 

He touched his glass against mine ; I could 
not say a word : it tortured me that Fabiani so 
lightly could lay bare my wound before a stran- 
ger ; but he indeed saw the whole thing from 
quite a different side to what I did. 

“ Yes,” continued Fabiani, “ and he has also 
fought a duel for her sake, wounded the nephew 
of the senator in the side, who was his rival, 
and so he has been obliged to fly. Heaver 
knows how he has conveyed himself across 
the frontiers ; and, thereupon, he makes his 
appearance in San Carlo. It is, in fact, an act 
of temerity which I had not expected from him.” 

“The senator’s nephew!” repeated Genna- 


ro, “now that interests me. He is within 
these few days come here, has entered into the 
royal service. I have been with him this very 
afternoon — a handsome, interesting man. Ah, 
now I comprehend it all ! Annunciata wiL soon 
be here ; the lover has flown hither before her, 
settles himself down, and very soon we shall 
read in the play-bills that the singer makes her 
appearance for the last, — positively for the last 
time.” 

“ Do you fancy, then, that he will marry 
her!” inquired Francesca; “but that would, 
however, be a scandal in his family.” 

“ One has instances of such things,” said I 
with a tremulous voice ; “ an instance of a no- 
bleman, who considered himself ennobled and 
happy by gaining the hand of a singer.” 

“ Happy, perhaps,” interrupted she, “ but 
never ennobled.” 

“ Yes, my gracious Signora,” interposed 
Gennaro, “ I should consider myself ennobled 
if she chose me, and so I fancy would many 
others.” 

They talked a deal, — a great deal of her and 
Bernardo ; they forgot how heavily every word 
must fall upon my heart. 

“ But,” said Gennaro, turning to me, “ you 
must delight us with an improvisation. Signora 
will give you a subject.” 

“Yes,” said Francesca, smiling, “sing us 
Love, that is a subject which- interests Genna- 
ro, as you indeed know.” 

“Yes, Love and Annunciata!” exclaimed 
Gennaro. 

“ Another time I will do every thing which 
you can desire from me,” said I, “ but this 
evening it is impossible to me. I am not quite 
well. I sailed across the bay without my cloak ; 
it was so warm by the lava-stream, and then 1 
drove here in the cool evening.” 

Gennaro besought me most pressingly to im- 
provise notwithstanding, but I could not in this 
place, and upon this subject. 

“ He has already the artist’s way with him,” 
said Fabiani ; “he must be pressed. Will you, 
or will you not, go with us to-morrow to Pess- 
tum ! there you will find material enough for 
your poetry. You should make yourself a little 
scarce. There cannot be much which binds 
you to Naples.” 

I bowed and felt myself in a difficulty, whilst 
I did not see how I could refuse. 

“ Yes, he goes with us,” exclaimed Gennaro ; 
“ and when he stands in the great temple, and 
the spirit comes over him, he will sing like a 
Pindar !” 

“ We set off to-morrow morning,” continued 
Fabiani ; “ the whole tour will occupy four days. 
On our return we will visit Amalfi and Capri. 
You must go with us.” 

A no , might, perhaps, as the consequence 
will shewq have changed my whole fate. These 
four days robbed me, dare I say it, of six years 
of my youth. And man is a free agent ! Yes, 
we can freely seize upon the threads which lie 
before us, but how they are firmly twisted to- 
gether, w r e do not see. I gave my thanks, and 
said yes ; and seized hold upon the thread which 
drew the curtain of my future more closely to- 
gether. 

“To-morrow we shall have more talk to- 
gether,” said Francesca, when after supper we 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


83 


separatea, and she extended to me her hand to 
kiss. 

“ This very evening I shall, however, write 
to Excellenza,” said Fabiani ; “ I will prepare 
the reconciliation-scene.” 

“And I will dream about Annunciata,” ex- 
claimed Gennaro ; “ for that I shall not be chal- 
lenged,” added he, laughing, as he pressed my 
hand. 

I, too, wrote a few words to Federigo ; told 
him of my meeting with the family of Excel- 
lenza, and that I should make a little journey 
towards the South with them. I ended the 
letter; a thousand feelings operated in my 
breast. How much had not this evening brought 
me ! flow many events ran athwart each 
other ! 

I thought on Santa, on Bernardo, by the 
burning picture of the Madonna, and then on 
the last hours spent amid old connexions. Yes- 
terday a whole public, to whom I was a stran- 
ger, had received me with acclamation ; I was 
admired and honoured. This very evening, a 
woman, rich in beauty, had made me conscious 
of her love for me ; and a few hours after- 
wards I stood among acquaintance, friends, 
whom I had to thank for every thing ; and as 
nothing before them but the poor child, whose 
first duty was gratitude. 

But Fabiani and Francesca had really met 
me with affection ; they had received me as 
the prodigal son, had given me a place at their 
table ; invited me to join them in a pleasure 
tour on the morrow. Benefit was added to 
benefit ; I was dear to them. But the gift 
which the rich present with a light hand lies 
heavily upon the heart of the poor ! 


CHAPTER XX. 

JOURNEY TO P^STUM THE GRECIAN TEMPLE 

THE BLIND GIRL. 

The beauty of Italy is not found in the Cam- 
pagna, nor yet in Rome. I knew it only from 
my ramble by Lake Nemi, and from what I had 
seen in my journey to Naples. Doubly, there- 
fore, must I have felt its rich beauty, almc^t 
more even than a foreigner, who could com- 
pare its loveliness with that of other countries. 
Like a fairy world, therefore, which I have seen 
in dreams, nay, which lived in them, lie this 
three days’ journey before me. But how can I 
describe the impressions which my soul re- 
ceived, nay, as it were, actually were infused 
into my blood 1 

The bounty of nature can never be given by 
description. Words place themselves in array 
indeed, like loose pieces of mosaic, one after 
another, but one understands not the whole 
picture put together piecemeal. Thus it is in 
nature ; of the entire greatness there must be 
always something wanting. One gives the 
single pieces, and thus lets the stranger put 
them together himself ; but if hundreds saw the 
complete picture, each would represent it very 
differently. It is with nature, as with a beau- 
tiful face, no idea can be formed of it by the 
mere details of it ; we must go to a well-known 
object, and only when we can say, with mathe- 
matical precision, they are like one another, 


with the exception of this or that particular, 
can we have, in any degree, a satisfactory idea. 

If it were given to me to improvise on the 
beauty of Hesperia, I would describe with ex- 
act truth the real scenes which my eye here 
beheld ; and thou who hast never seen the 
beauty of South Italy, thy fancy might beautify 
every natural charm with which thou wast ac- 
quainted, and it would not be rich enough. 
The ideal of nature exceeds that of man. 

In the beautiful morning we set off from 
Castelamare. I see yet thre smoking Vesuvi- 
us, the lovely rocky valley, with the great vine- 
woods, where the juicy green branches ran 
from tree to tree ; the white mountain-castles 
perched on the green cliffs, or half-buried in 
olive-woods. I see the old temple of Vesta, 
with its marble pillars and its cupola, now the 
church of Santa Maria Maggiore. A piece of 
the wall was overthrown ; skulls and human 
bones closed the opening, but the green vine- 
shoots grew wildly over them, and seemed as 
if, with their fresh leaves, they would conceal 
the power and terror of death. 

I see yet the wild outline of the mountains, 
the solitary towers, where nets were spread 
out to catch the flocks of sea-birds. Deep be- 
low us lay Salerno, with the dark'blue-sea, and 
here we met a procession that doubly impress- 
ed the whole picture upon my mind. Two 
white oxen, with their horns an ell in span, 
drew a carriage, upon which four robbers, with 
their dark countenances and horrible scornful 
laugh, lay in chains, whilst dark-eyed, finely- 
formed Calabrians, rode beside them with their 
weapons on their shoulders. 

Salerno, the learned city of the middle ages, 
was the extent of our first day’s journey. 

“ Old folios have mouldered away,” exclaim- 
ed Gennaro, “ the learned glory of Salerno is 
grown dim, but the volume of nature goes into 
a new edition every year ; and our Antonio 
thinks, like me, that one can read more in that 
than in any learned musty book whatever.” 

“We may learn out of both,” replied I, 
“ wine and. bread must go together.” 

Francesca discovered that I spoke very ra- 
tionally. 

“ In talking there is no coming short on 
him,” said Fabiani, “ but in deeds ! You will 
have an opportunity of shewing us that, An- 
tonio, when you come to Rome.” 

To Rome ! I go to Rome 1 This thought 
had never occurred to me. My lips were si- 
lent ; but my inmost heart said to me that I 
could not, would not again see Rome, again 
enter into the old connexions. 

Fabiani continued to talk, so did the others, 
and we arrived at Salerno. Our first visit was 
to the church. 

<f Here I can be cicerone,” said Gennaro ; 

“ this is the chapel of Gregory the Seventh, 
the holy father who died in Salerno. His mar- • 
ble statue stands before us upon the altar, 
there lies Alexander the Great,” continued he, 
pointing to a huge sarcophagus. 

“ Alexander the Great 1” repeated Fabiani, 
inquiringly. 

“Yes, certainly; *is it not sol” asked he 
from the attendant. 

‘ As Excellenza says,” replied he. 

“ That is a mistake,” remarked I, observing 


84 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


the monument more nearly. “ Alexander re- 
ally cannot be buried here, that is against all 
history. See only, it is the triumphal proces- 
sion of Alexander, which is represented on the 
sarcophagus, and thence is derived the name.” 

As soon as we had entered into the church, 
they shewed us a similar sarcophagus, upon 
which was delineated a bacchanalian triumph, 
which had been brought hither from the tem- 
ple in Paestum, and now had been converted 
into the burial-place for a Salernian prince, 
whose modern marble statue, the size of life, 
was raised upon it. I reverted to this, and 
gave it as my opinion, that the circumstances 
of this so-called grave of Alexander must be 
similar to it. Quite pleased with my own pen- 
etration, I made a sort of oration on the sub- 
ject of the graves, to which Gennaro coldly re- 
plied, “ Perhaps and Francesca whispered 
in my ear that it was unbecoming of me, wish- 
ing to appear wiser than he ; that I must not 
do so. Silently and respectfully I drew back. 

At Ave Maria I sat alone with Francesca in 
the balcony of the great hotel. Fabiani and 
Gennaro were gone out to walk ; it was my 
place to entertain the gracious lady. 

“ What a beautiful play of coloufs !” said I, 
and pointed to the sea, which, white as milk, 
stretched itself out from the broad lava-paved 
street to the rosy*hued, brilliant horizon, whilst 
the rocky coast was of a deep indigo blue ; 
such a pomp of colouring I had never seen in 
Rome. 

“ The clouds have already said, ‘ Felissima 
notte V ” remarked Francesca, and pointed to 
the mountain, where a cloud hung high above 
the villas and the olive-woods, and yet far be- 
low the old castle, which, with its two towers, 
was nearly perched on the top of the mountain. 

“ There I should like to dwell and live !” ex- 
claimed I, “ high above the cloud, and look out 
over the eternally changing sea.” 

“ There you could improvise !” said she, 
smiling ; “ but then nobody would hear you, 
and that would be a great misfortune, Anto- 
nio !” 

“ Oh, yes !” replied I, likewise jestingly, “ if 
I must be candid, entirely without applause, is 
like a tree without sunshine ! That, of a cer- 
tainty, gnawed into the flower of Tasso’s life, 
in his captivity, as much as did the unhappiness 
of his love !” 

“Dear friend!” interrupted she, somewhat 
gravely, “ I am now speaking of you, and not 
of Tasso ! what have we to do with him in this 
question 1” 

“ Only as an example,” replied I : “ Tasso 
was a poet, and — ” 

“You believe it to be so,” interrupted she, 
hastily ; “ but, for Heaven’s sake, dear Anto- 
nio, do not ever mention an immortal name* in 
conjunction with your own ! Do not fancy 
that you are a poet, an improvisatore, because 
you have an easily excited temperament of 
mind, and the art of catching up ideas ! Thou- 
sands can do this as well as you ! Do not go 
and make yourself unfortunate through it !” 

“ But thousands only lately have awarded to 
me their applause !” replied I, and my cheeks 
burned ; “ and it really is quite natural that I 
should have these thoughts, this conviction : 
and I am sure that you will rejoice in my suc- 


cess and in that which conduces to my well- 
being !” 

“ None of your friends would do so moie 
than I !” said she ; “we all value your excel- 
lent heart, your noble character, and for the 
sake of these I will venture to promise that 
Excellenza will forgive you ! You have glori- 
ous abilities, which must be developed, but 
that they must actually be, Antonio ! Nothing 
comes of itself! People must labour t Your 
talent is a charming company talent ; you may 
delight many of your friends by it, but it is not 
great enough for the public.” 

“ But,” I ventured to suggest, “ Gennaro, 
who did not know me, was yet enchanted with 
my first appearance in public.” 

“Gennaro!” repeated she, “yes, with all 
my esteem for him, I set no value at all upon 
his judgment of art ! And the great public] 
Yes, in the capital, artists very soon hear quite 
a different opinion ! It was very well that you 
were not hissed ; that would really have dis- 
tressed me. Now it will all blow quietly over, 
and very soon will be entirely forgotten both 
you and your improvisation ! Then you as- 
sumed a feigned name also ! In about three 
days we shall be again in Naples, and the day 
afterwards we return to Rome. Regard it all 
as a dream, as it really has been, and shew us, 
by industry and stability, that you are awake 
again. Do not say a word, now — I intend 
kindly by you ; I am the only one who tells 
you the truth !” 

She gave her hand for me to kiss. 

The next morning we set. off in the early, 
grey dawn, in order that we might reach Pses- 
tum in time to spend a few hours there, and 
be back again the same day in Salerno, because 
visitors cannot pass the night at Paestum, and 
the road thither is unsafe. Gens d'armes on 
horseback accompanied us as escort. 

Orange-gardens, woods I might call them, 
lay on either hand. We passed over the river 
Sela, in whose clear water were reflected 
weeping- willows and laurel hedges. The wild 
hills inclosed a fertile corn-country. Aloes and 
cactuses grew wildly by the road-side ; every 
thing was luxuriant and abundant, and now we 
saw before us the ancient temple, above two 
thousand years’ old, built in the purest, most 
beautiful style ; this, a miserable public-house, 
three wretched dwellings, and some huts of 
reeds, were now all that remained of this re- 
noAvned city. We saw not a single rose-hedge, 
and the multitude and affluent beauty of the 
roses had once given its celebrity to Paestum. 
At that time a crimson glow lay upon these 
fields, now they were blue, infinitely blue, like 
the distant mountains ; fragrant violets cover- 
ed the great plain, springing up amid thistles 
and thorns. A wilderness of fertility lay all 
around ; aloes, wild figs, and the red pyretrum 
indicum , twined one among another. 

Here are found the characteristics of Sicilian 
landscape ; its abundance and luxuriance ; its 
Grecian temples and its poverty. A whole 
crowd of beggars stood around us, who resem- 
bled the natives .of the South Sea Islands. 
Men clad in long sheep-skins, with the wool 
outside, with naked, dark brown limbs, and the 
long black hair hanging loosely around the 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


85 


brown yellow countenance ; girls of the most 
beautiful forms, only half clad, with the short 
3 kirt hanging in tattars to the knee ; a sort of 
cloak, of ugly brown stuff, thrown loosely 
around the bare shoulders, and the long black 
hair bound together in a knot, and with eyes 
that flashed fire. 

One young girl there was, scarcely more 
chan eleven years old, lovely as the Goddess 
of Beauty, and yet resembling neither Annun- 
ciata nor Santa. I could think of nothing else 
but the Medicean Venus, as Annunciata had de- 
scribed it, as I looked at her. I could not love, 
but admire, and bow before the form of beauty. 

She stood at a little distance from the other 
beggars ; a brown square piece of cloth hung 
loosely over one shoulder, the other breast and 
arm were, like her feet, uncovered. That she 
thought of ornament, and had the taste for it, 
was proved by the smoothly bound-up hair, in 
which a bouquet of blue violets was fastened, 
and which hung in curls upon her beautiful 
forehead. Modesty, soul, and a singular, deep 
expression of suffering, were expressed in her 
countenance. Her eyes were cast down, as if 
she sought for something upon the ground. 

Gennaro perceived her first, and although 
she spoke not a word, he offered her a gift, pat- 
ted her under the chin, and said that she was 
too handsome for the rest of her company. 
Fabiani and Francesca were of his opinion. I 
saw a fine crimson diffuse itself under the clear 
brown skin, and raising her eyes, I saw that 
she was blind. • 

Gladly would I, too, have given her money, 
but I ventured not to do it. When the others 
were gone to the little hostel, followed by the 
whole troop of beggars, I turned myself quickly 
round and pressed a scudo into her hand ; by 
the feeling she seemed to know its worth ; her 
cheeks burned, she bent forward, and the fresh 
lips of health and beauty touched my hand ; 
the touch seemed to go through my blood ; I 
tore myself away and followed the others. 

Fagots and twigs burned in a great flaming 
pile in the wide chimney, which almost occu- 
pied the whole breadth of the chamber. The 
smoke whirled out under the sooty roof, which 
compelled us to go outside, and behind the tall, 
shadowy, weeping willow our breakfast was 
prepared, whilst we went to the temple. We 
had to pass through a complete wilderness. 
Fabiani and Gennaro took hold of each other’s 
hands, to make a sort of seat for Francesca, 
and thus carried her. 

“A fearful pleasure-excursion!” cried she, 
laughing. 

“ 0, Excftllenza !” said one of our guides, 
“ it is now magnificent : three years ago there 
was no getting through here for thorns, and in 
my childhood sand and earth lay right up to 
the pillars.” 

The rest affirmed to the truth of his remark, 
and we went forward, followed by the whole 
troop of beggars, who silently observed us ; 
the moment our eye met that of one of the 
beggars, he immediately stretched out his hand 
mechanically to beg, and a miserabile resounded 
from his lips. The beautiful blind girl I could 
not see ; she now, indeed, sat alone by the 
way-side. We went over the ruins of a thea- 
tre and a temple of peace. 


“ A theatre and peace !” exclaimed Gennaro ; 
“how could these two ever exist so near to 
each other 1” 

The Temple of Neptune lay before us ; this, 
the so-called Basilica, and the Temple of Ceres, 
are the glorious, proud remains which, like a 
Pompeii, stand forth again to our age, out of 
oblivion and night. 

Buried amid rubbish, and entirely over- 
grown, they lay concealed for centuries, until 
a foreign painter, who sought for subjects for 
his pencil, came to this place and discovered 
the uppermost of the pillars ; their beauty at- 
tracted him ; he made a sketch of them ; they 
became known ; the rubbish and the wild 
growth of plants were removed, and again 
stood forth, as if rebuilded, the large open 
halls. The columns are of yellow Travertine 
marble ; wild vines grow up around them ; 
fig-trees shoot up from the floor, and in clefts 
and crevices spring forth violets and the dark- 
red gillyflower. 

We seated ourselves upon the pedestal of 
one of the broken columns. Gennaro had driv- 
en the beggars away that we might enjoy in 
stillness the rich scene around us. The blue 
mountains, the near sea, the place itself in 
which we were, seized strongly upon me. 

“ Improvise now to us !” Fabiani said ; and 
Francesca nodded to me the same wish. 

I leaned against one of the nearest pillars, 
and sang, to a melody of my childhood, that 
which my eye now beheld ; the beauty of na- 
ture ; . the glorious memorial of art ; and I 
thought on the poor blind maiden, from whom 
all magnificent objects were concealed. She 
was doubly poor, doubly forlorn. Tears came 
to my eyes : Gennaro clapped his hands in 
applause ; and Fabiani and Francesca said 
apart to each other, “ He has feeling.” 

They now descended the steps of the temple. 
I followed them slowly. Behind the pillar 
against which I had stood sat, or rather lay, a 
human being, with her head sunk to her knees, 
and her hands clasped together ; it was the 
blind maiden. She had heard my song — had 
heard me sing of her painful yearning and of 
her deprivations : it smote me to the soul. I 
bent myself over her : she heard the rustling 
of the leaves, raised her head, and to me it 
seemed that she looked much paler. I ven- 
tured not to move. She listened. 

“Angelo !” she exclaimed, half aloud. 

I know not why, but I held my breath ; and 
she sat for a moment silent. It was the Gre- 
cian goddess of beauty which I saw, with eyes 
without the power of vision, such as Annun- 
ciata had described her to me. She sat on the 
pedestal of the temple, between the wild fig- 
tree and the fragrant myrtle-fence. She press- 
ed a something to her lips, and smiled : it was 
the scudo which I had given to her. I grew 
quite warm at the sight of it, bowed myself 
involuntarily, and pressed a hot kiss upon her 
forehead. 

She started up with a cry, a thrilling cry, 
which sent, as it were, a death-pang through 
my soul. She sprung up like a terrified deer, 
and was gone. I saw nothing more, every 
thing was in motion around me, and I, too, 
made my escape through thorns and bushes. 

“Antonio ! Antonio !” I heard Fabiani call- 


86 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


mg to me a lang way behind ; and again I be- 
thought myself of time and place. 

“ Have you started a hare !” asked he ; “ or 
was it a poetical flight which you were taking !” 

“ He will shew us,” said Gennaro, “ that he 
can fly where we can only get along at a foot’s 
pace ; yet I would venture to take the same 
flight with him and so saying, he placed 
himself at my side, to race with me. 

“ Do you think that I, with my Signora on 
my arm, can go step for step with you!” ex- 
claimed Fabiani. Gennaro remained standing. 

When we came to the little hostel, my eye 
m vain sought for the blind girl : her cry con- 
tinually resounded in my ear : I heard it within 
my very heart. It was to me as if I had com- 
mitted a sin. I it was really, who had, although 
innocently, sang care and sorrow into her heart, 
by making her deprivations more intelligible to 
her. I had excited terror and anxiety in her 
soul, and had impressed a kiss upon her brow, 
the first which I had ever given to a woman. 
If she could have seen me, I had not dared to 
do it : her ipisfortune — her defencelessness — 
had given me courage. And I had passed such 
severe judgment on Bernardo ! — I, who was a 
child of sin like him, like every one ! I could 
have kneeled at her feet, and prayed for for- 
giveness ; but she was nowhere to be seen. 

We mounted the carriage to drive back to 
Salerno ; yet once more I looked out to see if 
I could discover her ; but I did not venture to 
.nquire where she could be. 

At that moment Gennaro exclaimed, “ Where 
is that blind girl 1” 

“ Lara!” said our guide. “ She still sits in 
the Temple of Neptune : she is generally there.” 

“ Bella Divina /” cried Gennaro, and wafted 
a kiss with his hand towards the temple. We 
rolled away. 

She was then called Lara. I sat with my 
back to the driver, and saw when the columns 
of the temple became yet more and more dis- 
tant ; but within my heart intoned the anguish- 
cry of the girl, my own suffering. 

A troop of gipsies had encamped themselves 
by the road-side, and had made a great fire in 
the ditch, over which they were boiling and 
roasting. The old gipsy mother struck upon 
the tambourine, arid wanted to tell us our for- 
tunes, but we drove past. Two black-eyed 
girls followed us for a considerable time. They 
were handsome : and Gennaro made himself 
merry about their easy motions and their flash- 
ing eyes ; but beautiful and noble as Lara were 
they not. 

Towards evening we reached Salerno. The 
next morning we were to go to Amalfi, and 
thence to Capri. 

“ We shall remain,” said Fabiani, “ only one 
day in Naples, if we return there at all. To- 
wards the end of the week we must be again 
in Rome. You can very soon get your things 
in order, Antonio!” 

I could not — I wished not, to return to Rome ; 
but a bashfulness, a fear, which my poverty 
and my gratitude had instilled into me through 
all the years of my life, permitted me to do no 
more than stammer forth, that Exeellenza cer- 
tainly would be angry at my audacity in com- 
ing back again. 

“We will take ?are of all that !” exclaimed 
Fabiani to me. 


“ Forgive me, but I cannot !” I stammered, 
and seized Francesca’s hand. “ I feel deeply 
that which I owe you.” 

“ Say nothing of that, Antonio,” she replied, 
and laid her hand upon my mouth. 

Strangers at that moment were announced ; 
and I withdrew silently into a corner, feeling 
how weak I was. 

Free and independent as a bird had I been 
only two days before ! and He, who permits 
not a sparrow to fall unheeded to the ground 
would have cared for me ; and yet I let the first 
thin thread which twined itself round my feet 
grow to the strength of a cable. 

In Rome, thought I, thou hast true friends, 
true and honest, if not so courteous as those in 
Naples. I thought on Santa, whom I never 
more would see. I thought on Bernardo, whom 
I actually should meet in Naples every day — 
on Annunciata, who would come here — on his 
and her happiness in love. “ To Rome ! to 
Rome ! it is much better there !” said my heart 
to me, whilst my soul struggled after freedom 
and independence. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE ADVENTURE IN AMALFI — THE BLUE SROTT5) 

OF CAPRI. 

How beautifully Salerno looked out from the 
sea, as, in the delicious morning hour, we sailed 
away from it. Six stout fellows pulled the 
oars. A little boy, handsome enough to be 
painted, sat at the helm : he was called Al- 
phonso. The water was green as glass. The 
whole coast to the right seemed like magnifi- 
cent hanging gardens, laid out by the bold Se- 
miramis of fancy. The vast open caves lay 
like colonnades down in the sea, within which 
played the heavy billows. Upon the projecting 
point of rock stood a castle, below whose tur- 
reted walls floated a small cloud. We saw 
Minori and Majori ; and, immediately after- 
wards, Amalfi, the birthplace of Masaniello and 
Flavio Gjojas, the discoverer of the mariner’s 
compass, which looked forth from amidst green 
vineyards. 

This great affluence of beauty overpowered 
me. Would that all the generations of the 
earth could see these glorious scenes ! No 
storm from the north or west brings cold or 
winter to the blooming garden upon whose ter- 
race Amalfi is placed. The breezes come only 
here from the east and the south, the warm 
breezes from the region of oranges and palms, 
across the beautiful sea. 

Along the shore, high up on the side of the 
mountain, hangs the city, with its white houses 
with their flat, oriental roofs ; higher still as- 
cend the vineyards. One solitary pine-tree 
lifts up its green crown into the blue air, where, 
on the ridge of the mountain, the old castle, 
with its encircling wall, serves as a couch for 
the clouds. 

The fishermen had to carry us through the 
surf from the boats to the land. Deep caves 
in the cliffs extended even to below the city ; 
into some of these the water flowed, others 
were empty. Boats lay beside them, in which 
played crowds of merry children, most of them 


87 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


only in a skirt or little jacket, which constitu- 
ted their whole clothing. Half-naked lazzaro- 
ni stretched themselves in the warm sand, their 
brown cowls pulled up about their ears, this 
being their most important covering during 
their noon-day’s sleep. All the church-bells 
were ringing ; a procession of young priests in 
violet-coloured dresses w T ent past us, singing 
psalms. A fresh garland of flowers hung around 
the picture which was fastened to the cross. 

To the left, high above the city, stands a 
magnificently great convent, just before a deep 
mountain-cave ; this is the herbcrg for all stran- 
gers. Francesca was carried up in a litter ; 
we others followed after, along the road cut in 
the rock, with the clear, blue sea lying deeply 
below us. We had now reached the gate of 
the convent, exactly opposite to which a deep 
cave gapes in the rock. Within this there were 
three crosses, on which were the Redeemer and 
the two thieves ; and above them, upon the 
stone of the rock, were kneeling angels in bright- 
coloured garments, and great white wings. No 
artistical work this, but all carved out of wood, 
and painted ; but, nevertheless, a pious, trust- 
ing heart breathed its own peculiar beauty over 
the rudely formed images. 

We ascended directly up through the con- 
vent-court to the rooms which, were appropria- 
ted to our use. From my window I saw the 
eternal sea, stretching away to Sicily, the ships 
standing like silver-white points upon the far 
horizon. 

“ Sir Improvisatore,” said Gennaro, “ shall 
not we descend into the lower regions, and see 
whether the beauty there is as great as it is 
here ! The female beauty is so, of a certainty ! 
For the English ladies that we have here for 
neighbours are cold and pale ! And you have 
a taste for the ladies ! I beg your pardon. It 
is this exactly which has driven you out into 
the world, and will give me a charming even- 
ing, and an interesting acquaintance !” 

We descended the rocky path. 

“ The blind girl in Paestum was, however, 
very handsome !” said Gennaro. “ I think that 
I shall send for her to Naples when I send for 
my Calabrian wine ! Both one and the other 
would set my heart in a glow !” 

We arrived at the city, which lay, if I may 
so say, singularly piled upon itself. Beside of 
it, the narrow Ghetto in Rome would have been 
a Corso. The streets were narrow passages 
between the tall houses, and right through 
them. Now one comes through a door into a 
long landing-place, with small openings on the 
sides leading into dark chambers, then into a 
narrow lane between brick-work and walls of 
rock, steps up and steps down, a half-dark lab- 
yrinth of dirty passages ; I often did not know 
whether it was a room or a lane in which we 
were. In most places lamps were burning ; 
and if it had not been so, although it was mid- 
day, it would have been dark as night. 

At length we breathed more freely. We stood 
upon a great brick-work bridge, which con- 
nected together two ridges of rock ; the little 
square below us was certainly the largest in 
the whole city. Two girls were dancing there 
the saltarello , and a little boy, entirely naked, 
beautifully formed, and with brown limbs, stood 
moking on, like a little Cupid. Here, they told 


me, it never freezes. The severest cold Amalfi 
has known for many years has been eight de- 
grees above zero. 

Close beside the little tower, upon the pro- 
jecting platform of rock from which is to be 
seen the lovely bay of Minori and Majori, a lit- 
tle serpentine path winds between aloes and 
myrtles ; and, following it, we were soon over- 
shadowed by the lofty arch of entwining vines. 
We -felt a burning thirst, and hastened onwards 
towards a little white dwelling-house, which, 
at the end of the vineyard, invited us, as it 
were, so kindly from among the fresh green. 
The mild, warm air was filled with fragrance, 
and beautifully bright insects hummed around 
us. / 

W e stood before the house, which was high- 
ly picturesque. There had been built into the 
wall, by way of ornament, some marble capitals, 
and a beautifully chiselled arm and foot, which 
had been found among the rubbish. Upon the 
roof even was a charming garden of oranges 
and luxurious twining plants, which, like a cur- 
tain of green velvet, hung down over the wall ; 
in the front blossomed a wilderness of monthly 
roses. Two lovely little girls, of from six te 
seven years old, played and wore garlands ; 
but the most beautiful, however, was a young 
woman with a white linen cloth on her head, 
who came to meet us from the door ! The in- 
tellectual glance, the long, dark eye-lashes, the 
noble form, yes, all made her indescribably 
beautiful ! We both involuntarily took off our 
hats. 

“ This most beautiful maiden, then, is the 
possessor of this house 1” inquired Gennaro. 
“ Will she, then, as mistress of the house, give 
to two weary travellers a refreshing draught 1” 

“ The mistress of the house will do that with 
pleasure !” said she, smiling, and the snow- 
white teeth parted the fresh, rosy lips. “ I will 
bring out wine to you here ; but I have only of 
one kind.” 

“ If you serve it, it will be excellent !” said 
Gennaro. “ I drink it most willingly when a 
young maiden as handsome as you serves it.” 

“ But Excellenza must be so good as to talk 
to a wife to-day !” said she, sweetly. 

“ Are you married,” asked Gennaro, smiling, 
“ so young 1” 

“ Oh, I am very old !” said she, and laughed 
also. 

“ How old!” inquired I. 

She looked archly into my face, and replied, 
“ Eight-and-twenty years old !” She was much 
nearer fifteen, but most beautifully developed ; 
a Hebe could not have been formed more ex- 
quisitely. 

“Eight-and-twenty!” said Gennaro. “'A 
beautiful age, which is very becoming to you ! 
Have you been long married 1” 

“ Twenty years !” replied she ; “ only ask 
my daughters there.” And the little girls whom 
we had seen playing came towards us. 

“ Is that your mother I” inquired I, although 
I very well knew that it was not so. They 
looked up to her, and laughed, nodded thereto 
an assent, and clung affectionately to her. 

She brought us out wine, excellent wine, and 
we drank her health. 

“ This is a poet, an improvisatore,” said Gen- 
naro to her, pointing to me ; “ he has bee n turn- 


88 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


ing the heads of all the ladies in Naples ! But 
he is a stone, a queer sort of fellow. He hates 
all women ; never gave a woman a kiss in his 
life !” 

“ That is impossible !” said she, and laughed. 

“ I, on the contrary,” continued Gennaro, 
“ am of quite a different sort ; I kiss all the 
handsome lips that come near me, am the faith- 
ful attendant of woman, and thus reconcile the 
world and her wherever I go ! It is awarded 
to me also, and I assert it as my right with 
every handsome woman, and I now, of course, 
require here my tribute also !” and so saying, 
he took her hand. 

“ I absolve both you and the other gentle- 
man,” said she ; “neither have I any thing to 
do with paying tribute. My husband always 
does that !” 

“ And where is hel” asked Gennaro. 

“ Not far off,” she replied. 

“ Such a handsome hand I have never seen 
in Naples !” said Gennaro ; “ what is the price 
of a kiss upon it V ’ 

“A scudo,” said she. 

“And double that price upon the lips V ’ said 
Gennaro. 

“ That is not to be had,” returned she ; 
“ that is my husband’s property !” 

And now she poured us out again the enli- 
vening, strong wine, joked, and laughed with 
us ; and, amid her joking, we discovered that 
she was about fifteen, had been married the 
year before to a handsome young man, who, at 
this moment, was in Naples, arul was not ex- 
pected to return before the morrow. The little 
girls were her sisters, and on a visit to her till 
her husband’s return. Gennaro prayed them 
for a bouquet of roses, which they hastened 
to gather, and for which he promised them a 
carlin . 

In vain he prayed her for a kiss ; said a 
thousand sweet, flattening things ; threw his 
arm around her waist ; she tore herself away, 
scolding him, but yet always came back again, 
because she found it amusing. He took a 
louis-d’or between his fingers, and told her 
what charming ribands she could buy with it, 
and how beautifully she might adorn her dark 
hair with them ; and all this splendour she 
might have only by giving him a kiss — one 
single kiss. 

“ The other Excellenza is much better !” said 
she, and pointed to me. My blood burned ; I 
took her hand, saying that she must not listen 
to him, that he was a bad man, must not look 
at his tempting gold, but must revenge herself 
upon him by giving me a kiss. 

She looked at me. 

“ He has,” continued I, “ said only one true 
word in all his speeches ; and that is, that I 
have never kissed the lips of any woman. I 
have kept my lips pure until I found the most 
beautiful ; and now I hope that you will reward 
my virtue !” 

“ He is actually an accomplished tempter !” 
said Gennaro. “ He excels me by being so ac- 
customed to his work.” 

“You are a bad man with your money,” said 
she ; “ and for that you shall see that I care 
neither for it nor for a kiss, and so the poet 
shall have it !” 

With this, she pressed her hands on my 


cheeks, her lips touched mine, and she van* 
ished behind the house. 

When the sun went down, I sat up in my 
little chamber in the convenf, and looked from 
the window over the sea ; it was rosy red, and 
threw up long billows on the shore. The fish- 
ermen pulled up their boats on the sand ; and, 
as the darkness increased, the lights became 
brighter, the billows were of a sulphur-blue. 
Over every thing prevailed infinite stillness ; 
in the midst of which I heard a choral song of 
fishermen on the shore, with women and chil- 
dren. The soprano of the children’s voices 
mingled itself with the deep bass, and a senti- 
ment of melancholy filled my soul. A falling 
star for a moment played in the heavens, and 
then shot downward behind the vineyards, 
where the lively young woman had kissed me 
in the day-time. I thought of her, how lovely 
she was, and of the blind girl, the image of 
beauty amid the ruins of the temple ; but An- 
nunciata stood in the background, intellectually 
and physically beautiful, and thus doubly beau- 
tiful ! My spirit expanded itself ; my soul burn- 
ed with love, with longing, with a deep sense 
of what it had lost. The pure flame which An- 
nunciata had kindled in my heart, the altar-fire 
of which she was the priestess, she had her- 
self stirred out and left, the fire now burned 
wildly through the whole building. 

“ Eternal Mother of God !” prayed I ; “ my 
breast is full of love, my heart is ready to 
burst with longing and regret !” And I seized 
upon the roses which stood in the glass, press- 
ed the most beautiful of them to my lips, and 
thought on Annunciata. 

I could not bear it any longer, and went 
down to the sea-side, where the shining billows 
broke along the shore, where the fishermen 
sang and the wind blew. I mounted the brick- 
work bridge, where I had stood during the day. 
A figure wrapped in a large cloak stole close by 
me ; I saw that it w T as Gennaro. He w r ent up 
the serpentine road to the little white house, 
and I followed him. He now softly passed the 
window, within wdiich a light w r as burning. 
Here I took my station, concealed by the de- 
pending vine-leaves, and could see distinctly 
into tl'.e room. There was, exactly on the 
other side of the house, a similar window, and 
some high steps led to the side-chamber. 

The two little girls, undressed to their night- 
clothes, were kneeling with their elder sister, 
the mistress of the house, as she really was, 
between them, before the table, on w r hich stood 
the crucifix and the lamp, and were singing 
their evening devotions. It w r as the Madonna 
with two angels, a living altar-piece, as if paint- 
ed by Raphael, which I saw before me. Her 
dark eyes were cast upwards ; the hair hung in 
rich folds upon her naked shoulders, and the 
hands were folded upon the 'youthfully beauti 
ful bosom. 

My pulse beat more quickly ; I scarcely ven- 
tured to breathe. Now all three arose from 
their knees ; she went with the little girls up 
the steps into the side-room, closed the door, 
and then w r ent into the first room, wfliere she 
busied herself about hor small household af- 
fairs. I saw her presently take out of a drawer 
a red pocket-book, turn it about in her hand a 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


89 


many times and smile ; she was just about to 
open it, but shook her head at that moment, and 
threw it again into the drawer, as if something 
had surprised her. 

A moment afterwards I heard a low tapping 
upon the opposite window. Terrified, she look- 
ed towards it, and listened. It tapped again, 
and I heard some one speak, but could not dis- 
tinguish the words. 

“ Excellenza 1” now exclaimed she aloud; 
“ what do you want 1 Why do you come here 
at this hour! For Heaven’s sake ! I am an- 
gry, very angry.” 

He again said something. 

‘ Yes, yes, it is true,” she said* “you have 
forgotten your pocket-book ; my little sister 
has been down to the inn to give it to you, but 
you were up in the convent. To-morrow morn- 
ing she would have gone there to you. Here 
it is.” 

She took it from the drawer. He again said 
something, to which she shook her head. 

“ No, no !” said she ; “ what are you think- 
ing of! I shall not open the door; you shall 
not come in 1” 

So saying, she went to the window, and 
opened it, to give him the pocket-book. He 
snatched at her hand, she let the book fall, and 
it remained lying on the window-sill. Gennaro 
put his head in ; the young wife flew to the 
window behind which I stood, and I could now' 
hear every w'ord w'hich Gennaro said. 

“ And you will not allow' me to kiss your 
lovely hand as thanks ; not receive the smallest 
reward ; not reach me a single cup of wine 1 I 
am parched with thirst. There cannot be any- 
thing w'rong in that ! Why not permit me to 
come in !” • 

“ No !” said she ; “ we have nothing to talk 
about at this hour. Take that winch you have 
forgotten, and let me close the window.” 

“ I will not go,” said Gennaro, “ before you 
give me your hand, before jmu give me a kiss. 
You cheated me out of one to-day, and gave it 
to that stupid youth !” 

“ No ! no !” said she, and yet laughed in the 
midst of her anger. “You want to obtain by 
force what I would not give freely,” said she ; 
“ therefore I shall not — will not, do it.” 

“ It is the last time,” said Gennaro, in a soft 
and beseeching tone, “ of a certainty the last 
time ; and can you refuse only just giving me 
your hand ! More I do not desire, although 
my heart has a thousand things to say to you ! 
Madonna wills it really that w r e human beings 
love one another like brother and sister ! Like 
a brother I will divide my money with you ; 
you can adorn yourself, and be twice as hand- 
some as you are ! All your friends will envy 
you ; nobody wall know.” And with these 
words he gave a quick spring, and stood within 
the room. 

She uttered a loud scream, “ Jesus Maria !” 

I shook the window violently where I stood ; 
the glass jingled, and, as if driven by an invis- 
ible power, I flew round to the open window', 
tearing away a support from one of the vine- 
trellises, that I might have with me some kind 
of w eapon. 

“ Is it thou, Nicolo !” cried she, loudly. 

“ It is I !” replied I, in a deep, resolute voice. 

I saw Gennaro again fly out of the window, 

/ M 


his cloak streaming in the wind. The lamp 
was knocked out, and it remained quite dark in 
the room. 

“Nicolo !” she cried from the window, and 
her voice trembled. “ Thou here again ! Ma- 
donna be praised !” 

“ Signora !” stammered I. 

“All ye saints !” I heard her say, and shut 
to the window with all haste. I stood there as 
if riveted to the spot. After some moments, 
I heard her go softly across the floor. The 
door of the side-chamber was opened and then 
closed again ; I heard her knocking something, 
as if she were making bolts secure. 

“ Now she is safe,” thought I, and crept 
softly aw'ay. I felt myself so well, so wonder- 
fully gay at heart. “ Now I have paid for the 
kiss which she gave me to-day,” said I to my- 
self ; “ perhaps she would have given me yet 
another, had she known what a protecting an- 
| gel I have been to her !” 

I reached the convent exactly as supper w r as 
ready ; no one had missed me. Gennaro, how- 
ever, did #ot make his appearance, and Fran- 
cesca became uneasy. Fabiani sent messenger 
on messenger. At length he came. He had 
walked, he said, as far as the mountains, and 
had lost himself, but had had the luck to meet 
at length with a peasant, who had put him in 
the right way. 

“Your coat is, also, quite in tatters,” said 
Francesca. 

“ Yes,” said Gennaro, taking a biscuit, “ the 
missing piece hangs on a thorn bush ; I saw it, 
howover ! Heaven know r s how I could ever 
lose my w r ay so ! But it was all the lovely 
evening, and then the darkness came on so 
quickly, and I thought of shortening my way. 
and precisely by that means lost it !” 

We laughed at his adventure ; I knew it bet- 
ter ; w'e drank to his health ; the wine was ex- 
cellent ; we became regularly excited. When 
we at length went to our chambers, which were 
only divided by a door from each other, he 
came before he undressed into mine, laughed, 
and laying his hand upon my shoulder, prayed 
me not to dream too much about the handsome 
woman that we had seen to-day. 

“ But I had the kiss !” said I, jestingly. 

“ Oh, yes, that you had !” said he, laughing, 
“ and do you think, therefore, that I came off 
with the step-child's portion!” 

“ Yes, so I think !” returned I. 

“ Step-child, how r ever, I never should re- 
main,” said he in a cold tone, in which was a 
certain degree of bitterness, but a faint smile 
played again around his mouth as he whis^ 
pered, “ if you could keep your counsel, I could 
tell you something !” 

“ Tell me,” said I, “ nobody shall hear a syl- 
lable from me!” I expected now to hear his 
lamentations over his unfortunate adventure ; 
his secret was this : 

“ I forgot, to-day, intentionally, my pocket- 
book, at the handsome woman’s house, that I 
might have an excuse for going there in the 
evening, for then women are not so strict. 
There it is : I have been there, and with 
climbing over the garden-wall and up among 
the bushes I tore my coat.” 

“ And the handsome woman!” I inquired. 

“Was twice as handsome!” said he, nod- 


90 


THE IMPR OVISATORE. 


ding significantly — “twice as handsome, and 
not a bit stern ; we were quite good friends, 
that I know ! She gave you one kiss — she 
gave me a thousand, and her heart into the 
bargain. I shall dream about my good luck all 
the night. Poor Antonio !” 

And, so saying, he kissed his hand to me 
and went to his own room. 

The morning heaven was covered as if with 
a grey veil, when we left the convent. Our 
stout rowers waited for us on the shore, and 
again carried us to our boat. Our voyage was 
now to Capri. The veil of heaven was rent 
asunder into light clouds ; the air became two- 
fold high and clear ; not a billow moved ; the 
soft curling of the sea was like a watered cloth. 
The beautiful Amalfi vanished behind the cliffs ; 
Gennaro threw a kiss towards it whilst he said 
to me, “ There we have plucked roses !” 

“ You, at all events, got among the thorns !” 
thought I, and nodded assentingly. 

The great, infinite sea, stretching on to Sici- 
ly and Africa, spread itself before u§. To the 
left lay the rocky coast of Italy, with its sin- 
gular caves ; before some of these stood little 
cities, which seemed as if they had stepped 
out of the caves ; in others sat fishermen, and 
cooked their meals and tarred their boats be- 
hind the high surf. 

The sea seemed to be a fat, blue oil'; we put 
our hands down into it, and they appeared as 
blue as it. The shadow which the boat threw 
upon the water was of the purest dark blue, 
the shadows of the oars a moving snake of 
every shade of blue. 

“ Glorious sea !” exclaimed I, in delight, 

“ nothing in all nature, with the exception of 
Heaven, is so beautiful as thou !” 

I called to mind how often I, as a child, had 
lain upon my back, and dreamed myself up 
into the blue, infinite air ; now my dream 
seemed to have become a reality. 

We passed by three small rocky islands, II 
Galli ; they were immense blocks of stone 
thrown one upon another ; giant towers raised 
up out of the deep, with others, again, piled 
upon them. The blue billows dashed up upon 
these masses of stone. In storm it must be a 
Scylla, with her howling dogs. 

The surface of the water slumbered around 
the naked stony Cape Minerva, where in old 
times the syrens had their abode. Before us 
lay the romantic Capri, where Tiberius had 
luxuriated in joy, and looked over the bay to 
the coast of Naples. The sail was spread- in 
our boat ; and, borne onward by the wind and 
the waves, we approached the island. Now, 
for the first time, we remarked the extraordi- 
nary purity and clearness of the water. It was 
as wonderfully transparent as if it had been 
air. We glided along, every stone, every reed, 
for many fathoms below us, being visible. I 
became dizzy when I looked down from the 
edge of our little boat into the depth over which 
we were passing. 

The island of Capri is approachable only 
from one side. Around it ascend steep, per- 
pendicular walls of cliff ; towards Naples they 
stretch out* amphitheatre-like, with vineyards, 
orange and olive-groves ; upon the s\iore stand j 
several cottages of fishermen anx a watch- j 


house ; higher up, amid the green gardens 
looks the little city of Anna Capri, into which 
a very small draw-bridge and gates conduct 
the stranger. We betook ourselves to the 
small inn of Pagani to rest ourselves. 

After dinner we were to ride up on asses to 
the ruins of Tiberius’s Villa, but now, how- 
ever, we waited for our breakfast, and between 
that and the following meal Francesca and 
Fabiani wished to repose themselves, in order 
to have strength for the afternoon’s walk. 
Gennaro and I felt no necessity for this. The 
island did not appear so large to me, but that 
in a few hours we could row round it, and see 
the lofty portals of rock which, towards the 
south, rear themselves isolatedly out of the 
sea. 

' We took a boat and two rowers ; the wind 
blew a little, so that for half the distance we 
could make use of the sail. The sea was 
broken on the low reef. Fishing-nets lay out- 
spread among them, so that we were obliged 
to go a considerable distance from them ; it 
was a beautiful, merry sail in that little boat ! 
Before long we saw only the perpendicular 
cliffs ascending from the sea up towards heav- 
en ; in the crevices of which, however, here 
and there sprang up an aloe, or gillyflower, yet 
with no footing e\en for the mountain-goat. 
Below the surf, which flew up like blue fire, 
grew upon the rocks the blood-red sea-apple, 
which, wetted by the w r aves, seemed to have a 
doubly bright hue ; it was as if the rocks bled 
at every stroke of the billows. 

The open sea now lay to the right of us, to 
the left o f us lay the island ; deep caves, whose 
uppermost openings lay but a little above the 
water, shewed themselves in the cliffs, others 
were only dimly visible in the surf. Down 
amid these abode the syrens ; the blooming 
Capri, upon which we had climbed, being only 
the roof of their rock-fortress. 

“Yes, bad spirits live here,” said one of the 
row r ers, an old man with silv6r-white hair. 
“ It may be beautiful down there,” said he, 
“ but they neve v let their victims escape ; and 
if by any chance one does come back, he has 
no longer any understanding for this w r orld !” 

He now shewed us at some distance an open- 
ing, somewhat larger than the others, but yet 
not large enough for out boat to enter, without 
a sail, even if we had lain dowrn in it, either for 
length or breadth. . 

“ That is the Witches’ Cave !”* whispere'd 
the younger rower, and pushed out further 

* This is the name given by the inhabitants of Capri to 
the Blue Grotto, which was only properly explored in 1831 
by two young Germans, Freis and Kopisch, and since then 
is become the goal of every traveller who visits South Ita- 
ly. Kopisch was born in Breslau, and is the author of a 
beautiful novel called “ Die Kahlkopfe auf Capri in 1837 
his poems were published. — Author's Note. 

Ernst Freis was a landscape-painter of extraordinary 
promise, the son of Mr. Freis, the well-known and hospita- 
ble banker of Heidelberg. Ernst Freis spent many years in 
Italy, and his finest pieces are scenes from that beautiful 
country. lie died suddenly, while yet quite young, at 
Carlsruhe, and lies buried under a beautiful monument in 
one of the burial-grounds in Heidelberg, In memory of 
him, his fellow-townspeople have laid out a fine public 
walk, leading from the splendid ruins of their celebrated 
castle round the hill to the very ancient site df the Roman 
Castle. A graceful and beautiful mark of respect to the 
memory of one who would so truly have enjoyed the luxu-y 
of its exquisite scenery. The road bears the name of the 
“ Freisen Weg,” in honour of him. — Translator's Note 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


91 


from the rocks ; “ within, all is gold and dia- 
monds, but any one who goes in there is burn- 
ed up in a fiery flame ! Santa Lucia, pray for 
us !” 

“ I wish I had one of the syrens here in the 
boat !” said Gennaro ; “but she must be beau- 
tiful, then all would be right.” 

“ Your luck with the ladies,” said I, laugh- 
ing, “would avail )ou, then, here also !” 

“ Upon the swelling sea is the right place 
for kissing and embracing ; that is what the 
waves are always at! Ah!” sighed he, “if 
we had but here the handsome woman from 
Amalfi ! That was a woman ! was not she \ 
You sipped of the nectar of her lips ! Poor 
Antonio! You should have seen her last 
evening ! She was gracisus to me !” 

“ Nay, nay,” said I, half indignant at his un- 
abashed boasting, “ it is not so ; I know better 
than that !” 

“ How am I- to understand that 1” asked he, 
and looked with much astonishment into my 
face. 

“ I saw it myself,” continued I ; “ chance led 
me there ; I doubt not of your great good for- 
tune in other cases ; but this time you only 
wish to joke with me.” 

He looked at me in silence. 

“ ‘ I will not go,’ ” said I, laughing, and imi- 
tating Gennaro, “ ‘ before you give me the kiss 
which you cheated me out of, and gave it to 
that foolish youth !’ ” 

“ Signore ! you have listened to me !” said 
he, gravely, and I saw that his countenance 
became quite pale : “ How dare you affront 
me 1 You shall fight with me, or I despise 
you !” 

This was an effect which I did not anticipate 
that my remarks would have produced. 

“ Gennaro, this is not your serious mean- 
ing,” exclaimed I, and took his hand ; he drew 
it back, made me no reply, but desired the 
sailors to make for the land. * 

“Yes, we must sail round the island,” said 
the old man, “ we can only land where we set 
out from.” 

They bent to their oars, and we speedily ap- 
proached the lofty arch of rock in the blue 
swelling water; but anger and vexation agi- 
tated my mind ; I looked at Gennaro, who 
lashed the water with his stick. 

“ Una tromba!” exclaimed .the youngest of 
the seamen ; and across the sea from Cape Mi- 
nerva came floating a coal-black cloud-pillar in 
an oblique direction from the sea towards 
heaven, the water boiling around it ; with all 
speed they took down the sail. 

“Where are you steering tol” inquired 
Gennaro. 

“ Back again, back again,” said the younger 
rower. 

“Around the whole island again V* in- 
quired I. 

“ Close under land ; close to the rocky wall ; 
the water-spout takes a direction farther out.” 

“ The surf will draw the boat in among the 
rocks,” said the old man, and hurriedly snatch- 
ed at the oars. 

“ Eternal God !” stammered I, for the black 
cloud-pillar came with the speed of the wind 
across the water, as if it would sweep along 
the rocky wall of Capri, in the neighbourhood 


of which we were, and if it came, it would ei- 
ther whirl us up with it, or force us down into 
the deep close by the perpendicular rocky coast. 
I seized upon the oar with the old man, and 
Gennaro assisted the younger ; but we already 
heard the winds howling, and the waters boiled 
before the feet of the water-spout, which drove 
us, as it were, before it. 

“ Santa Lucia, save us !” cried both the sea- 
men, flinging down their oars and falling on 
•their knees. 

“ Snatch hold on the oar,” cried Gennaro to 
me, but looked towards heaven pale as death. 

Then rushed the tempest over our heads ; 
and to the left, not far from us, went the dark 
night over the waves, which lifted themselves 
up in the air, and then struck white with foam 
upon the boat. The atmosphere pressed heavi- 
ly upon us as if it would force the blood out of 
the eyes ; it became night ; the night of death. 
I was conscious but of one thing, and that was, 
that the sea lay upon me ; that I, that we all, 
were the prey of the sea, of death ; and further 
I was conscious of nothing. 

More terrible than the might of the volcano ; 
overpowering as the separation from Annun- 
ciata, stands the sight before me which met my 
eyes, when they again opened to conscious- 
ness. Far below me, above me, and around 
me, was blue ether. I moved my arm, and like 
electric sparks of fire, millions of falling stars 
glittered around me. I was carried along by 
the current of air ; I was certainly dead, I 
thought, and now was floated through ethereal 
space up to the heaven of God, yet a heavy 
weight lay on my head, and that was my earth- 
ly sin, which bowed me down ; the current of 
air passed over my head, and it was like the 
cold sea. I mechanically put out my hands to 
grasp whatever might be near me ; I felt a solid 
substance, and clung firmly to it. A weari- 
ness, as of death, went through my whole 
being ; I felt that I had neither life nor strength 
within me ; my corpse rested certainly within 
the depths of the sea : it was my soul which 
now ascended to its fate. 

“ Annunciata !” sighed I. My eyes again open- 
ed. This swoon must certainly have lasted a 
long time. I breathed again ; I felt that I was 
stronger, and that my perception was distinct. 

I lay upon a cold, hard mass, as if on a point of 
rock, aloft in the infinitely blue ether which was 
lighted up around me. Above me vaulted it- 
self the heavens with singular ball- shaped 
clouds, blue as itself ; all was at rest, infinite- 
ly quiet. I felt, however, an icy coldness 
through my whole being; I slowly raised my 
hand. My clothing was of blue fire ; my hand 
shone like silver, and yet I felt that they were 
my bodily hands. My mind constrained itself 
to action ; did I belong to death or to life 1 I 
extended my hand down into the strangely 
shining air below me ; it was water into which 
I thrust it, blue, like burning spirit, but cold as 
the sea. Close beside me stood a column, un- 
shapely and tall, of a sparkling blue, and like 
the water-spout upon the sea, only of a smaller 
size. Was it my terror or my remembrance 
which presented to me this image 1 After some 
moments I ventured to touch it ; it was as hard 
as stone, and as cold as it also ; I stretched out 
my hands into the half-dark space behind m8* 


22 


THE 1MPR0VISAT0RE. 


and felt only hard, smooth wall, but dark-blue, 
as the night-heavens. 

Where was 11 Was that below me, which I 
had taken for air, a shining sea, which burned 
of a sulphurous blue, but without heat ; was the 
illumined space around me this, or was it light- 
diffusing walls of rock, and arches high above 
me? Was it the abode of death, the cell of 
the grave for my immortal spirit ? An earthly 
habitation it certainly was not. Every object 
was illumined in every shade of blue ; I my- 
self was enwrapped in a glory which gave out 
light. 

Close beside me was an immense flight of 
steps which seemed to be made of vast sap- 
phires, every step being a gigantic block of this 
sparkling stone ; I ascended these, but a wall 
of rock forbade all further advance. Perhaps I 
was unworthy to approach any nearer to heav- 
en. I had left the world, burdened with the 
wrath of a human being. Where was Genna- 
ro ? Where were the two seamen ? I was 
alor.e, quite alone. I thought of my mother, of 
Domenica, of Francesca, upon every one ; 1 
felt that my fancy created no deception ; the 
glory which I beheld was, like myself, either 
spiritual or physical. 

In a crevice of the cliff, I saw an object 
standing ; I touched it. It was a large and 
heavy copper cup, which was full of gold and 
silver coins ; I felt the individual pieces, and 
my situation appeared to me stranger than be- 
fore. Close to the surface of the water, and 
not far from where I stood, I saw a clear blue 
star, which cast a single, long ray of light, pure 
as ether over the mirror of the water, and 
while I yet looked at it, I saw it darken itself 
like the moon ; a black object shewed itself, 
and a little boat glided onward over the burning 
blue water. It was as if it had ascended out of 
the deep, and then floated upon its surface ; an 
old man slowly rowed it forward, and the wa- 
ter shone red as crimson at every stroke of his 
oars. In the other part of the boat sat also a 
human figure, a girl, as I soon could see. Si- 
lent, immovable as images of stone, they sat, 
excepting that the old man worked the oars. 
A strangely deep sigh reached my ear, it seem- 
ed to me that I recognised the sound. They 
rowed round in a circle, and approached the 
place where I stood. The old man laid his oars 
in the boat ; the girl raised her hand on high, 
and exclaimed in a voice of deep suffering, 
“ Mother of God, forsake me not ! Here am I 
indeed, as thou hast said.” 

“ Lara !” I cried aloud. 

It was she ; I knew the voice. I recognised 
tne form ; it was Lara, the blind girl, from the 
ruined temple in Paestum. 

“ Give me my eyesight ! Let me behold God’s 
beautiful world !” said she. 

It was as if the dead had spoken ; my very 
soul trembled. She demanded now from me 
the beauty of the world, after which I, by my 
song, had breathed into her soul deep longings. 

“ Give me — ” stammered her lips, and she 
sank back into the boat, and the water splashed 
like fire-drops around it. 

For a moment the old man bent himself over 
her, and then came out to where I stood. His 
glance rested upon me ; I saw him make the 
sign of the cross in the air. take up the heavy 


copper-vessel, w T hich he placed in the boat, and 
then entered himself. I instinctively followed 
after him. His singularly dark glance was 
fixed immovably upon me ; he now snatched up 
the oars, and we floated on towards the shining 
star. A cold current of air rushed towards us ; 
I bent myself over Lara. A narrow opening 
of rock now shut us in, but only for a moment, 
and then the sea, the great sea, in its infinite ex- 
panse, lay before us, and behind us reared it- 
self up to heaven the perpendicular cliffs. It 
was a little, dark opening through w T hich w r e 
had come ; close beside us was a low flat, 
overgrown with scattered bushes and dark-red 
flow r ers. The new moon shone wonderfully, 
clearly. 

Lara raised herself up. I ventured not to 
touch her hand ; she was a spirit, I believed. 
The whole wore spirits ; no dream images of 
my fancy. 

“ Give me the herbs !” said she, and stretch- 
ed out her hand. I felt that I must obey the 
voice of the spirit. I saw the red flowers 
growing upon the green bushes on the low r flat 
under the high cliffs. I stepped out of the 
boat, gathered the flowers, which had a very 
peculiar smell ; I offered them to her. A 
weariness, as of death, went through my limbs, 
and I sank down on my knee, but not without 
perceiving that the old man made the sign of 
the cross, took 'from me the flowers, and then 
lifted Lara into a large boat which' lay just by ; 
the lesser one remained fastened to the shore. 
The sail w r as spread, and they sailed away over 
the sea. 

I stretched my hands after them, but death 
lay as heavily on my heart as if it were about 
to break. 

“ He lives !” were the first words w r hich I 
again heard. I opened my eyes, and saw Fa- 
biarii and Francesca, who stood with yet a 
third person, a stranger, beside me ; he held 
my hand, and looked gravely and thoughtfully 
into my face. 

I was lying in a large, handsome room ; it 
was day. Where was I ? Fever burned in my 
blood, and only slowdy and by degrees I be- 
came aware how I had come there, and how I 
had been saved. 

When Gennaro and I did not return, they 
had become very uneasy about us, neither 
could any tidings be gained of the men who 
went with us, and as a water-spout had been 
seen to pass southward round the coast, our 
fate became decided. Two fishing-boats were 
immediately sent out to make the circuit of the 
island, so that they might meet each other, 
but not a trace either of us or our boat could 
they discover. Francesca had wept ; she was 
very kind to me ; she lamented with pain the 
deaths of Gennaro and the two seamen. Fa- 
biani would not be satisfied without himself 
going out to search ; he resolved to examine 
every little crevice of the rocks, to see whether 
some of us might not have saved ourselves by 
swimming, and might perhaps be even then 
enduring the most horrible of deaths — that of 
distress and hunger; for from not one single 
place was it possible to climb up to human 
beings. In the early morning, therefore, he 
had gone out with four strong rowers, had 
visited the isolated rocky portals of the sea. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


93 


and every individual chasm of rock. The 
rowers were unwilling to approach the terrific 
Witch’s Cave, but Fabiani commanded them 
to steer there towards the little green flat. As 
he approached the place, he saw, at no great 
distance, a human being lying outstretched ; 
it was myself. I lay like a corpse among the 
green bushes : my dress was half dried by the 
winds ; they took me into the boat : he cover- 
ed me with his cloak, rubbed my hands and my 
breast, and perceived that I breathed faintly. 
They made for land, and, under the care of 
the physician, I was again among the number 
of the living. Gennaro and the two seamen 
were nowhere to be found. 

They made me tell them all that I could re- 
member, and I told them of the singularly 
beaming cave in which I had awoke, of the boat 
with the old fisherman and the blind girl, and 
they said it was my imagination, a feverish 
dream in the night air ; even I myself felt as 
if I ought to think so, and yet I could not, it 
stood all so livingly before my soul. 

“ Was he then found by the Witch’s Cave 1” 
inquired the physician, and shook his head. 

“ You do not, then, believe that this place 
has a more potent influence than any other 1” 
asked Fabiani. 

“ Nature is a chain of riddles,” said the phy- 
sician ; “ we have only found out the easiest.” 

It became day in my soul. The Witch’s 
Cave, that world of which our seamen had 
spoken, where all was gleaming fire and beams ! 
Had the sea, then, borne me in there 1 I re- 
membered the narrow opening through which 
I had sailed out of it. Was it reality, or a 
dream 1 Had I looked into a spiritual world ' 
The mercy of the Madonna had saved and pro- 
tected me. My thoughts dreamed themselves 
back again into the beamingly-beautiful hall 
where my protecting angel was called Lara. 

In truth, the whole was no dream. I had 
seen that which not until some years afterwards 
had been discovered, and now is the most 
beautiful object in Capri, nay, in Italy, the 
Grotta Azura. The female form was really 
the blind girl from Paestum. But how could I 
believe it 1 how imagine it to be so 1 It was, 
indeed, very strange. I folded my hands, and 
thought upon my guardian angel. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

JOURNEY HOME. 

Francesca and Fabiani remained yet two 
days in Capri, that we might be able to make 
the journey back to Naples together. If I had 
formerly been many times wounded by their 
mode of speaking to me, and their treatment 
of me, I now received so much affection from 
them, and they had showed so much solicitude 
about me, that I clung to them with my whole 
heart. 

“ Thou must go with us to Rome,” they said, 
“ that is the most rational and the best thing 
for thee.” 

My singular deliverance ; the wonderful ap- 
pearance in the cave, operated greatly on my 
excited state of mind. I felt myself po wholly 


in the hand of the invisible guide who lovingly 
directs all to the best, that I now regarded all 
chances as in the ruling of Providence, and 
was resigned ; and, therefore, when Francesca 
kindly pressed my hand, and asked me wheth- 
er I had a desire to live in Naples with Ber 
nardo, I assured her that I must and would go 
to Rome. 

“We should have shed a many tears foi 
thee, Antonio,” said Francesca, and pressed 
my hand ; “ thou art our good child. Madon- 
na has held her protecting hand over thee.” 

“Excellenza shall know,” said Fabiani, 
“ that the Antonio with whom he was angry 
is drowned in the Mediterranean, and that we 
are bringing back home with us the old, ex* 
cellent Antonio.” 

“ Poor Gennaro !” sighed Francesca then, 
“he possessed a noble heart, life, and spirit. 
In every thing he was a master !” 

The physician sat beside me for many hours ; 
he was properly from Naples, and was only on 
a visit in Capri. On the third day he accom- 
panied us back. He said that I was perfectly 
well, bodily at least, though not spiritually. I 
had looked into the kingdom of death — had 
felt the kiss of the angel of death upon my 
brow. The mimosa of youth had folded to- 
gether its leaves. 

When we were seated in the boat, with the 
physician in company, and I saw the clear, 
transparent water, all the recollections of the 
past crowded themselves upon my soul, and I 
thought how near I had been to death, and 
how wonderfully I had been saved. I felt that 
life was still so beautiful, and tears rushed to 
my eyes. All my three companions occupied 
themselves alone with me, nay, Francesca her- 
self talked of my beautiful talent — called me a 
poet ; and when the physician heard that it 
was I who had improvised, he told what delight 
I had given to all his friends, and how trans- 
ported they had been with me. 

The wind was in our favour, and, instead of 
sailing direct to Sorrento, as had at first been 
determined, and of going from thence over land 
to Naples, we now sailed directly up to the 
capital. In my lodging I found three letters — 
one from Federigo ; he had again set off to 
Ischia, and would not return for three days ; 
this distressed me, for thus I should not be able 
to bid him farewell, because our departure was 
fixed for the noon of the following day. The 
second letter, the waiter told me, had been 
brought the morning after I had set out ; I 
opened it, and read : 

“ A faithful heart, which intends honourably 
and kindly towards you, expects you this eve- 
ning.” Then was given the house and the num- 
ber, but no name, only the words, “Your old 
friend.” 

The third letter was from the same hand, and 
contained — 

“ Come, Antonio ! Tire terror of the last un- 
fortunate moment of our parting is now well 
over. Come quickly ! — regard it as a misunder 
standing. All may be right ; only delay not a 
moment in coming!” The same signature as 
before. 

That these were from Santa was to me suffi- 
ciently evident ; although she had chosen an- 
other house than her’s for our meeting. I re- 


94 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


solved not to see her again ; wrote in haste a 
few polite words to her husband, that I was 
leaving Naples, that the hurry in which our 
arrangements were made forbade me to pay 
him a farewell visit ; I thanked him for his and 
his Signora’s politeness to me, and besought 
them not to forget me. For Federigo I wrote, 
also, a little note ; promised him a regularly 
long letter from Rome, because I was not now 
in a condition to write. 

I went out nowhere, for I wished not to 
meet Bernardo, and saw none of my new 
friends. The only person whom I visited w r as 
the physician, and I drove to his house with 
Fabiani. His was a charming and friendly 
home : his eldest sister, an unmarried lady, 
kept his house. There was a something so 
affectionate, something so truthful, about her, 
that I was immediately taken with her. I could 
not help thinking of old Domenica, only that she 
was accomplished, was possessed of talents 
and higher perfections. 

The next morning, the last which I w r as to 
spend in Naples^ my eye dwelt, with a melan- 
choly sentiment, upon Vesuvius, which I now 
saw for the last time ; but thick clouds envel- 
oped the top of the mountain, which seemed 
as if it would not say to me farewell. 

The sea was perfectly tranquil. I thought 
upon my dream-pictures — Lara in. the glitter- 
ing grotto — and soon would all my whole resi- 
dence here in Naples be like a dream ! I took 
up the paper Diario di Napoli, which the waiter 
brought in : I saw my own name in it, and a 
critique on my first appearance. Full of curi- 
osity, I read it : my rich fancy and my beauti- 
ful versification were in particular most highly 
praised. It is said that I seemed to be of the 
school of Pangetti, only that I had a little too 
.much followed my master. I knew nothing at 
all about this Pangetti, that was certain ; and, . 
therefore, could not have formed myself upon 
this model. Nature and my own feelings had 
alone been my guides. But the greatest num- 
ber of critics are so little original themselves, 
that they believe that all whom they pass judg- 
ment upon must have some model to copy. 
The public had awarded me a greater applause 
than this,; although the critic said that in time 
I should become a master, and that I was now 
already possessed of uncommon talent, rich 
imagination, feeling, and inspiration. I folded 
together the paper, and resolved to keep it : it 
would some time be a token to me, that all this 
which I had lived through here was not a dream. 

I had seen Naples, had moved about in it, had 
won and had lost much. Was Fulvia’s brilliant 
prophecy all come to an end 1 

We left Naples ; the lofty vineyards disap- 
peared from our sight. In four days we made 
the journey back to Rome ; the same way 
which, about two months before, I had trav- 
elled with Federigo and Santa. I saw again 
Mola di Gaeta and its gardens of oranges : the 
trees were now fragrant with blossoms. I went 
into the path where Santa had sat and heard 
my life’s adventure : how many important cir- 
cumstances had since that time knit themselves 
to it ! We drove through the dirty Itri, and 
I thought upon Federigo. At the frontiers, 
where our passports were given up for inspec- 


tion, some goats yet stood in the cave of the 
rock as he had painted them ; but the little 
boy I saw not. We passed the night at Ter- 
racina. 

The next morning, the atmosphere was infi- 
nitely clear. I said my farewell to the sea, 
which had pressed me in its arms, had lulled 
me into the most beautiful dream, and had 
shown me Lara, my image of beauty. In the 
far distance I yet perceived, on the clear hori- 
zon, Vesuvius, with its pale blue pillar of 
smoke : the whole was as if breathed in air 
upon the brilliant firmament. 

“ Farewell ! farewell ! away to Rome, where 
stands my grave !” sighed I; and the carriage 
bowled us away, over the green marshes, to 
Velletri. I greeted the mountains where I had 
gone with Fulvia ; I saw again Genzano, drove 
over the very spot where my mother had been 
killed ; where I, as a child, had lost my all in 
this world. And here I now came, like an 
educated gentleman : beggars called me Excel- 
lenza, as I looked out into the street. Was I 
now really happier than I had been at that 
former time 1 

We drove through Albano, the Campagna 
lay before us. We saw the tomb of Ascanius, 
with its thick ivy, by the wayside ; farther on, 
the monuments, the long aqueduct, and now 
Rome, with the cupola of St. Peter’s. 

“ A cheerful countenance, Antonio,” said 
Fabiani, as we rolled in at the Porta San Gio 
vanni. The Lateran Church, the tall Obelisk, 
the Coliseum, and Trajan’s Square, all told me 
that I was at home. Like a dream of the 
night, and yet like a whole year of my life, 
floated before me the circumstances of the last 
few weeks. How dull and dead was every 
thing here, in comparison with Naples ! The 
long Corso was no Toledo street. I saw again 
well-known countenances around me. Habbas 
Dahdah went tripping past, and saluted us, as 
he recognised the carriage. In the corner of 
the Via Condotti sat Peppo, with his wooden 
clogs upon his hands. 

“ Now we are at home,” said Francesca. 

“Yes, home !” repeated I ; and a thousand 
emotions agitated my breast. In a few mo- 
ments, I should stand, like a schoolboy, before 
Excellenza. I shrunk from the meeting ; and 
yet it seemed to me that the horses did not fly 
fast enough. 

We drew up at the Palazzo Borghese. 

Two small rooms, in the highest story, were 
appropriated to me. But I had not yet seen 
Excellenza. We were now summoned to table. 
I bowed deeply before him. 

“ Antonio can sit between me and Frances- 
ca,” were the first words which I heard hi» 
say. 

The conversation was easy and natuial. 
Every moment I expected that a bitter remark 
would be aimed at me ; but not a word, not 
the least, reference, was made to my having 
been away, or to Excellenza having been dis- 
pleased with me, as his letter had said. 

This gentleness affected me. I doubly prized 
the affection which met me thus ; and yet 
there w r ere times w T hen my pride felt itself 
wounded — because I had met with no repioof 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


95 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

EDUCATION — THE YOUNG ABBEbS. 

The Palazzo Borghese was now my home. 

I was treated with much more mildness and 
kindness. Sometimes, however, the old teach- 
ing tone, the wounding, deprecating mode of 
treating me returned ; but I knew that it was 
intended for my good. 

During the hottest months, they left Rome, 
and I was alone in the great palace : towards 
winter they returned, and the old results were 
again produced. They seemed to forget, in 
the meantime, that I had become older, that I 
was no longer a child in the Campagna, who 
regarded every word which was spoken as an 
article of faith ; or a scholar from the Jesuits’ 
school, who continually and continually must 
be educated. 

Like a mighty sea, where billow is knit to 
billow, lies an interval of six years before me. 

I had swam over it : God be praised ! Thou 
who hast followed me through my life’s adven- 
tures, ily rapidly after. The impression of the 
whole I will give thee in a few touches. It 
was the combat of my spiritual education ; the 
journeyman treated as an apprentice; before he 
could come forth as a master. 

I was considered as an excellent young man 
of talent, out of whom something might be 
made ; and, therefore, every one took upon 
himself my education. My dependence per- 
mitted it to those with whom I stood connected ; 
my good nature permitted it to all the rest. 
Livingly and deeply did I feel the bitterness of 
my position, and yet I endured it. That was 
an education. 

Excellenza lamented over my want of the 
fundamental principles of knowledge : it mat- 
tered not how much soever I might read : it 
was nothing but the sweet honey, which was 
to serve for my trade, which I sucked out of 
books. The friends of the house, as well as of 
my patrons, kept comparing me with the ideal 
in their own minds, and thus I could not do 
other than fall short. The mathematician said 
that I had too much imagination, and too little 
reflection : the pedant, that I had not suffi- 
ciently occupied myself with the Latin lan- 
guage. The politician always asked me, in the 
social circle, about the political news, in which 
I was not at home, and inquired only to shew 
my want of knowledge. A young nobleman, 
who only lived for his horse, lamented over 
my small experience in horseflesh, and united 
with others in a miserere over me, because I 
had more interest in myself than in his horse. 
A noble lady-friend of the house, who, on ac- 
count of her rank and great self-sufficiency, 
had gained the reputation of great wisdom and 
critical acumen ; but who had actually very 
little of the sense she pretended to, requested 
that she might go through my poems, with ref- 
erence to their beauty and structure ; but she 
must have them copied out on loose papers. 
Habbas Dahdah considered me as a person 
whose talent had. at one time. ? r omised great 
things : but which had now aiea out The first i 
dancer in the citv aesDisea me. oecause ^ cou_^ « 
not make a figure in tne Da^-room : tne gram- j 
marian, because I made use of a full stoD wnere i 
he placed a semicolon ; and Francesca sa,.:, 


that I was quite spoiled , because people made so 
much of me ; and for that reason she must be 
severe, and give me the benefit of her instruc- 
tion. Every one cast his poison-drop upon my 
heart : I felt that it must either bleed, or be- 
come callous. 

The beautiful and the notle in every thing 
seized upon and attracted me. In tranquil 
moments I often thought on my educaters, 
and it seemed to me that they existed in 
the whole of nature, and the life of the world 
for which my thoughts and my soul only ex- 
isted as active artisans. The world even seem- 
ed to me a beautiful girl, whose form, mind, 
and dress, had attracted my whole attention ; 
but the shoemaker said, “Look only at her 
shoes ; they are quite preferable ; they are the 
principal thing !” The dress-maker exclaimed, 
“No, the dress; see, what a cut! that, above 
all, must occupy yoa ; go into the colour, the 
hems, study the very principles of it !” “ No,” 

cries the hair-dresser, “you must analyse this 
plait ; you must devote yourself to it !” “ The 

speech is of much more importance!” exclaims 
the language-master. “ No, the carriage !” says 
the dancing-master. “Ah! good Heaven !” I 
sigh, “ it is the whole together which attracts 
me. I see only the beautiful in every thing; 
but I cannot become a dress-maker or a shoe- 
maker just for your pleasure. My business is 
to exalt the beauty of the whole. Ye good men 
and women, do not, therefore, be angry and 
condemn me.” 

“ It is too low for him !” “ It is not high 

enough for his poetical spirit !” said they all, 
deridingly. 

No beast is, however, so cruel as man ! Had 
I been rich and independent, the. colours oi 
every thing would soon have changed. Every 
one of them were more prudent, more deeply 
grounded, and more rational, than I. I learned 
to smile obligingly where 1 could have wept ; 
bowed to those whom I lightly esteemed, and 
listened attentively to the empty gossip of fools. 
Dissimulation, bitterness, and ennui , were the 
fruit of the education which circumstances and 
men afforded me. People pointed always to 
my faults. Was there then nothing at all in- 
tellectual, no good points in me! It was I my- 
self who must seek for these, who must make 
these availing. People riveted my thoughts 
upon my own individual self, and then upbraid 
ed me for thinking too much of myself. 

The politician called me an egotist because I 
would not occupy myself solely and altogether 
with his calling. A young dilletante in (Esthet- 
ics, a relation of the Borghese family, taught 
me on what I ought to think, compose, and 
judge, and that always in one mode, that every 
stranger might see that it was the nobleman 
who taught the shepherd boy, the poor lad, who 
must be doubly grateful to him in that he con- 
descended to instruct him. He who interested 
himself for the beautiful horse, and for that 
and that alone, said that I was the very vainest 
of men because I had no eye for his steed. But 
were not they all egotists 1 Or had they right ? 
i Perhaos 1 I was a poor child for whom they 
j had done a great dea.. But E mv name had no 
j nobilitv attached to it my soul had, and inex- 
i pressiblv deeniv did it feel everv humiliation. 

X who with my wnole soui had c.ung to mao' 


96 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


kind, was now changed, like Lot’s wife, into a 
pillar of salt. This gave rise to defiance in ray 
soul. There were moments when my spiritual 
consciousness raised itself up in its fetters, and 
became a devil of high-mindedness, which look- 
ed down upon the folly of my prudent teach- 
ers, and, full of vanity, whispered into my ear, 
“ Thy name will live and be remembered, when 
all theirs are forgotten, or are only remembered 
through thee, as being connected with thee, as 
the refuse and the bitter drops which fell into 
thy life’s cup !” 

At such moments I thought on Tasso, on the 
vain Leonora, the proud Court of Ferrara, the 
nobility of which now is derived from the name 
of Tasso ; whose castle is in ruins, and the po- 
et’s prison a place of pilgrimage. I myself felt 
with what vanity my heart throbbed ; but, in the 
manner in which I was brought up, it must be 
so, or else it must bleed. • Gentleness and en- 
couragement would have preserved my thoughts 
pure, my soul full of affection ; every friendly 
smile and word was a sunbeam, which melted 
one of the ice-roots of vanity ; — but there fell 
more poison-drops than sunbeams. 

I was no longer so good as I had been former- 
ly, and yet I was called an excellent, a remark- 
ably excellent young man. My soul studied 
books, nature, the world, and myself, and yet 
they said, he will not learn any thing. 

This education lasted for six years, nay sev- 
en, I might say, but that about the close of the 
sixth year there occurred a new movement in 
the waves of my life’s sea. In six long years 
there were certainly many circumstances which 
might have been communicated, many which 
were of more marked interest than those of 
which I have been speaking, but all melted them- 
selves, however, into one single drop of poison 
as every man of talent, not possessed of either 
wealth or rank, knows as well as the pulsations 
of his own heart. 

I was an Abbd, had a sort of name in Rome 
as improvisatore, because I had improvised and 
read poems aloud in the Academia Tiberina, and 
had always received the most decided applause ; 
but Francesca w r as right when she said that they 
clapped every thing which any body read here. 
Habbas Dahdah stood as one of the first in the 
Academy — that is to say, he talked and wrote 
more than any one else ; all his fellow profes- 
sors said that he was too one-sided, ill-temper- 
ed, and unjust, and yet they endured him among 
them, and so he wrote and wrote on. 

He had gone, he said, through my water-col- 
our pieces, as he called my poems, but he could 
not now discover one trace of the talent which 
he had at one time, w T hen in the school I bowed 
myself before his opinion, found in me ; it had 
been strangled in the birth, he said, and my 
friends ought to prevent any of my poems, which 
were only poetical misconceptions, from seeing 
the light. The misfortune was, he said, that 
great geniuses had written in their youthful 
years, and thus it had been with me. 

I never heard anything of Annunciata ; she 
was to me like one dead, who, in the moment of 
death, had laid her cold hand crushingly upon 
my heart, and thereby it had become more sus- 
ceptible of every painful emotion. My residence 
in Naples, all the recollections of it, were as a 
beautiful paralysing Medusa’s head. When tho 


sirocco blew, I bethought, myself of the mild 
breezes at Paestum, of Lara, and the brilliant 
grotto in which I had seen her. When I stood 
like a school-boy before my male and female ed- 
ucates, came to me recollections of the plau- 
dits in the Robber’s Cave, and in the great the- 
atre of San Carlo. When I stood unobserved 
in a corner, I thought of Santa, who stretched 
forth her arms after me, and sighed, * Kill mft, 
but leave me not !” They were six long, in- 
structive years ; I was now six and twenty years 
old. 

Flaminia, the young abbess, as they called 
her, the daughter of Francesca and Fabiani, 
who already had been consecrated in the cradle 
by the holy father as the bride of heaven, I had 
not seen since I had danced her upon my arm, 
and drawn for her merry pictures. She had been 
educated in a female convent in the Quattri Fon- 
tane, from which she never came. Fabiani had 
not seen her either for six long years ; Frances- 
ca only, as her mother, and as a lady, was per- 
mitted to visit her. She was, they said, grown 
quite a beautiful young woman, and the pious 
sisters had brought her mind to the same state 
of perfection. According to old custom, the 
young abbess W'as now to return home- to her 
parents for some months, to enjoy all the pleas- 
ure of the world, and all its joy, before she said 
for ever farewell to it. She could even then, it 
was said, choose between the noisy world and 
the quiet convent, but as, from the child’s play 
with the dolls dressed as nuns, so through her 
whole education in the convent, everything had 
been done with the design of riveting her soul 
and her thoughts to her destined life. 

Often when I went through Quattri Fontane, 
where the convent was situated, I thought of 
the friendly child whom I had danced upon my 
arm, and how changed she must be, and how 
quietly she lived behind the narrow wall. Once 
only had I been to the convent church, and had 
heard the nuns singing between the grating. 
Was the little abbess seated among them “1 
thought I, but ventured not to inquire whether 
the boarders also took part in the singing, and 
the church music. There was one voice which 
sounded so high and melancholy above the oth- 
ers, and which had a great resemblance to An- 
nunciata’s ; I seemed again to hear her, and all 
the remembrances from that gone time seemed 
to awaken again in my soul 

“ Next Monday our little abbess comes to us,” 
said Excellenza. I longed inexpressibly to see 
her. She seemed to me, like myself, to be like 
a captive bird, which they let out of the cage with 
a string about its leg, that it might enjoy free- 
dom in God’s nature. 

I saw her for the first time again at the din 
ner-table. She was, as they had told me, very 
much grown, somewhat pale, and, at the first 
moment, no one would have said that she was 
handsome ; but there was an expression of 
heart-felt goodness in her countenance, a won- 
derful gentleness was diffused over it. 

There were at the table only a few of the 
nearest relations. Nobody told her who I was, 
and she appeared not to recognise me, but re- 
plied, with a kindness to which I was not accus- 
tomed, to every single word which I said. I felt 
that she made no difference between us, and 
drew me also into the conversation. She does 
not know me most assuredly, thought T 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


97 


All the party was cheerful, told anecdotes and 
droll passages in every-day life ; and the young 
abbess laughed. This gave me courage, and I 
introduced several puns, which, just at that 
time, had produced great effect in many circles 
in the city. But no one laughed at them except- 
ing the young abbess ; the others only faintly 
smiled, said that it was poor wit, and that it 
was not worth repeating. I assured them that, 
in almost every other place in Rome, people 
found a deal to laugh at in them. 

“ It is but a mere play upon words,,” said 
Francesca. “ How can any one find pleasure 
in such superficial vyit 1 What mere nothings 
can occupy a human brain !” 

I occupied myself very little, in truth, with 
such things. But I had wished to contribute 
my part to the general entertainment, and that 
which I had related appeared to me very amu- 
sing, and exactly calculated for the purpose. I 
became silent and constrained. 

Many strangers were there in the evening, 
and I kept myself prudently in the back-ground. 
The great circle had gathered around the excel- 
lent Perini. He was of my age, but a nobleman, 
lively, and, in fact, very entertaining ; and was 
possessed of all possible company talen-ts. Peo- 
ple knew that he was amusing and witty, and 
discovered that every thing which he said was 
so. I stood somewhat behind, and heard how 
they were all laughing, especially Excellenza. 

I approached nearer. It was precisely that very 
same play of 'words which I to-day had so un- 
fortunately brought forward for the first time 
that Perini now related. He neither took from 
it nor added to it, but gave the very same words 
with the very same mien that I had done, and 
they all laughed ! 

“ It is most comic,” cried Excellenza, and 
clapped his hands ; “ most comic, is it not ?” 
said he, to the young abbess, who stood by his 
side and laughed. 

“ Yes ; so it seemed to me at dinner when 
Antonio told it to us !” returned she. There 
was nothing at all bitter in this remark of hers ; 
jt was spoken with her customary gentleness. 

I could have fallen at her feet. 

“ Oh, it is superb !” said Francesca, 1 to Peri- 
ni’s pun. 

My heart beat violently. I withdrew to the 
window, behind the long curtains, and breathed 
the fresh air. 

I bring forward merely this one little trait. 
Every day, as it went on, gave rise to similar 
ones. But the young abbess was an affection- 
ate child, who looked into my face with gentle- 
ness and love, as if she would pray for forgive- 
ness for the sins of the others. I was also very 
weak. I had vanity enough, but no pride. That 
was occasioned, certainly, by my low birth, by 
my early bringing up, by my dependence, and 
the unfortunate relationship of benefits receiv- 
ed, in which I was placed to those around me. 
The thought was for ever recurring to my mind 
how much I was indebted to my circumstances, 
and that thought bound my tongue to the re- 
solves of my pride. It was assuredly noble ; 
but, at the same time, it was weakness. 

Had I stood in an entirely independent posi- 
tion, things could not have come to the state in 
which they were. Every one acknowledged my 
sense of duty and my firm conscientiousness; 
N 


and yet, they said, a genius ;s not capable of 
grave business. Those who were the most 
polite to me said, that I was possessed of too 
much spirituality for it. If they meant what 
they said, how ill they judged of a man of mind ! 
I might have perished of hunger, it was said, 
had it not been for Excellenza ; how much grat- 
itude, therefore, did I not owe him! 

About this time I had just finished a great 
poem — “ David” — into which I had breathed my 
whole soul. Day after day, through the last 
year, spite of the eternal educating, the recollec- 
tions of my flight to Naples, my adventures 
there, and the severing of my first strong love, 
had given my whole being a more determined 
poetical bent. There were moments which 
stood before me as a whole life, a true poem, in 
which I myself had acted a part. Nothing ap- 
peared to me without significance, or of every- 
day occurrence. My sufferings even, afid the 
injustice which was done to me, was poetry. 
My heart felt a necessity to pour itself forth, and 
in “ David” 1 found material which answered to 
my requiring. I felt livingly the excellence of 
what I had written, and my soul was gratitude 
and love ; for it is the truth, that I never either 
sang or composed a strophe which appeared to 
me good, without turning myself with child-like 
thanks to the eternal God, from whom I felt that 
it was a gift, a grace which he had infused into 
my soul! My poem made me happy ; and I 
heard, with a pious mind every thing which 
seemed to be said unreasonably against me ; for 
I thought, when they hear this, they will feel 
what an injustice they have done me, their 
hearts will warm towards cne with twofold love ! 

My ptfem was completed ; no human eye ex- 
cepting my own had yet seen it. It seemed to 
stand before me like a Vatican Apollo, an un- 
polluted image of beauty known only to God him- 
self. I gladdened myself with the thought of 
the day when I should read it in the Academia 
Tiberina. I resolved that nobody in the house 
should in the meantime^know of it. One day, 
however, one of the first after the young abbess 
was come home, Francesca and Fabiani were 
so gentle and kind to me, that I felt as if I could 
have no secrets with them. I told them, there- 
fore, of my poem, and they said, “ But we ought 
first of all to hear it.” 

I was willing that they should, although not 
without a kind of throbbing of heart, an extra- 
ordinary anxiety. In the evening, jnst as I was 
about to read it, who should make his appear- 
ance but Habbas Dahdah. 

Francesca besought him to remain, and to 
honour my poem by hearing it read. Nothing 
could have been more repugnant to me. I knew 
his bitterness, ill-humour, and bad-blood ; nor 
were the others particularly prepossessed in my 
favour. Nevertheless, the consciousness of the 
excellence of my work gave me a sort of cour- 
age. The young abbess looked happy ; she de- 
lighted herself with the thoughts of hearing my 
“ David.” When I first stepped forward in San 
Carlo, my heart did not beat more violently than 
now, as I sat before these people. This poem, 
I thought, must entirely change their judgment 
of me — their mode of treating me. It was a sort 
of spiritual operation by which I desired to in- 
fluence them, and therefore I trembled. 

A natural feeling within me had led me only 


98 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


to describe that which I knew. David’s shep- 
herd life, with which my poem opened, was bor- 
rowed from my childhood’s recollections in the 
hut of Domenica. 

“ But that is actually yourself,” cried Fran- 
cesca ; “ yourself out in the Campagna.” 

“ Yes ; that one can very well see,” said Ex- 
eellenza. “ He must bring himself in. That is 
really a peculiar genius that the man has ! In 
every possible thing he knows howto bring’for- 
ward himself.” 

“ The versification ought to be a little smooth- 
er,” said Habbas Dahdah. “ I advise the Hora- 
tian rule, ‘ Let it only lie by — lie by till it comes 
to maturity !’ ” 

It was as if they had all of them broken off 
an arm from my beautiful statue. I, however, 
read yet a few more stanzas, but only cold, 
slight observations met my ear. Whenever my 
hearthad expressed naturally its own emotions, 
they said I had borrowed from another poet. 
Whenever my soul had been full of warm in- 
spiration, and I had expected attention and rap- 
ture, they seemed indifferent, and made only 
cold and every-day remarks. I broke off at the 
conclusion of the second canto ; it w'as impos- 
sible for me to read any more. My poem, which 
had seemed to me so beautiful and so spiritual, 
now lay like a deformed doll, a puppet with glass 
eyes and twisted features ; it was as if they had 
breathed poison over my image of beauty. 

“But David does not kill the Philistines!” 
said Habbas Dahdah. With this exception, they 
said that there were some very pretty things in 
the poem ; that what related to childhood and 
to sentiment I could-express very nicely. 

I stood silent, and bowed, like a criminal for 
a gracious sentence. 

“ The Horatian rule,” whispered Habbas Dah- 
dah, pressing my hand very kindly and calling 
me “poet.” Some minutes, however, after- 
wards, when I had withdrawn, greatly depress- 
ed, into a corner, I heard him say to Fabiani that 
my vrork was “ nothii% at all but desperate bun- 
glingly-put-together stuff!” 

They had mistaken both it and me, but my 
soul could not bear it. I went out into the great 
saloon adjoining where a fire was burning on 
the hearth ; I convulsively crumped together my 
poem in my hand. All my hopes, all my dreams, 
were in a moment destroyed. I felt myself so 
infinitely small ; an unsuccessful impression of 
Him rn whose image I was made. 

That which I had loved, had pressed to my 
lips, into which I had breathed my soul, my liv- 
ing thoughts ; I cast from me into the fire ; I 
saw my poem kindle-up into red flame. 

“ Antonio !” cried the young abbess close be- 
hind me, and snatched into the fire after the 
burning leaves ; her foot slipped in her quick 
movement, and she fell forward on the fire. It 
was a fearful sight ; she uttered a shriek, I 
sprang forward to her and caught her up ; the 
poem was all in a blaze, and the others came 
rushing into the room. 

“ Jesus Maria !” exclaimed Francesca. 

The young abbess lay pale as death in my 
arms : she raised her head, smiled, and said to 
her mother — 

“ My foot slipped ; I have only burned my 
hand a little ; if it had not been for Antonio it 
would have been a great deal worse !” 


I stood like a sinner, and could not say one 
word. She had severely burnt her left hand, 
and a great excitement was occasioned by it in 
the house. They had not noticed that I had 
thrown my poem into the fire. I expected that 
they would afterwards inquire about it, but as I 
did not speak of this, neither was it spoken of 
by any one — by no one at all 1 Yes, by one — by 
Flaminia, the young abbess ! 

In her I saw the good angel of the house ; 
through her gentleness, her sisterly disposition, 
after some time, my whole childlike confidence 
returned ; I was as if bound to her. 

It was more than fourteen days before her 
hand was healed. The wound burned, but it 
burned also in my heart. 

“ Flaminia, I am guilty of the wh&le !” said I 
one day as I sat alone with her ; “ for my sake 
you have suffered this pain.” 

“ Antonio,” said she, “ for Heaven’s sake be 
silent ! Let no creature hear a word of this ; 
you do yourself an injustice, my foot slipped, it 
might have been much more unfortunate had 
not you.been there. I owe thanks to you for it, 
and that my father and mother feel also ; they* 
are much attached to you, Antonio, more so 
than you think.” 

“ I owe every thing to them,” I said ; “ every 
day lays me under a fresh obligation.” 

“ Do not speak of that,” said she, with inde- 
scribable sweetness ; “ they have their own 
mode of behaving to you, but they only think 
that it is the best. You do not know how much 
good my mother has told me about you ! We 
have all of us our faults, Antonio, even you your- 
self” — she paused. “ Yes,” continued she, 
“how could you be so angry as to burn that 
beautiful poem 1” 

“ It was not worth any thing hotter,” said I; 
“ I ought long before to have thrown it into the 
flames.” 

Flaminia shook her head. “ It is a bad, wick- 
ed world !” said she ; “yes, it was very much 
better there among the sisters in the quiet, 
friendly convent.” 

“Yes,” exclaimed I; “innocent and good 
like you am I not ; my heart has in its remem- 
brance rather the bitter drops than the refresh- 
ing draughts of benefits whi(^i have been ex- 
tended to me.” 

“ In my beloved convent it was much better 
than it is here, though you all love me so much,” 
she often would say when we were together 
alone/ My whole soul was attracted towards 
her ; for I felt that she was the good angel of 
my bitter feelings and my innocence. I seemed 
also to perceive in others a greater delicacy to- 
wards me, a greater gentleness in word and in 
looks ; and I fancied that this was the effect of 
Flaminia’s influence. 

She seemed to have such great pleasure in 
talking to me about the things which occupied 
me most — poetry, the glorious, Godlike poetry. 
I told her a great deal about the great masters, 
and often inspiration ascended into nqy soul, and 
my lips became eloquent, as she sat there be- 
fore me with folded hands, and looked into my 
face like the angel of innocence. 

“And yet, how happy you are, Antonio!” 
said she, “ more happy than thousands ! And 
nevertheless it seems to me that it must be an 
anxious thing to belong to the world in the same 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


degree as you, and every poet must ! How very 
much good cannot one word of yours produce, 
and yet how much evil likewise !” 

She expressed her astonishment that poets 
for ever sung of human struggles and troubles ; 
to her it seemed that the prophet of God, as the 
poet is, should only sing of the eternal God and 
of the joy of heaven. 

“ But the poet sings of God in His creatures !” 
replied I ; “ he glorifies Him in that which He 
has created for His glory.” 

“ I do not understand it,” said Flaminia ; “ I 
feel clearly, however, that which I mean to say, 
but I have not the words for it. Of the eternal 
God, of the divinity in His world and in our own 
hearts, the poet ought to speak, ought to lead us 
to his heart, and not into the. wild world.” 

. She then inquired from me how it was to be 
a poet ; how one felt when one improvised ; and 
I explained to her this state of spiritual opera- 
tion as well as I could. 

“ The thoughts, the ideas,” said she ; “ yes, 
I understand very well that they are born in the 
soul, that they come from God ; we all know 
that, but the beautiful metre, the mode in which 
this consciousness expresses "itself, that I un- 
derstand not.” 

“ Have you not,” I inquired, “ often in the 
convent learned one or another beautiful psalm 
or legend which is made in verse 1 And then 
often, when you are least thinking about it, 
some circumstance or another has called up an 
idea within your mind, by which the recollec- 
tion is awoke of this or that, so that you could, 
then .and there, have written them down on 
paper ; verses, rhymes, even have led you to 
remember the succeeding, whilst the thought, 
the subject, stood clearly before you 1 Thus is 
it with the improvisatore and poet — with me at 
least ! At times it seems to me these are rem- 
iniscences, cradle-songs from another world, 
which awake in my soul, and which I am com- 
pelled to repeat.” 

“ How often have I felt the same kind of 
thing !” said Flaminia, “ but never was able to 
express it. That strange longing, which often 
took hold upon me, without my knowing where- 
fore ! To me it seemed, therefore, so often, 
that I was not at home here in this wild world. 
The whole seemed to me a great and strange 
dream ; and this was the reason why I longed 
so again for my convent — for my little cell ! I 
know not how it is, Antonio, but there I used-so 
often to see in my dreams my bridegroom Jesus 
and the Holy Virgin, now they present them- 
selves more seldom : I dream now so much 
about worldly pomp and joy, about so much that 
is wicked. I am certainly no longer so good as 
I was among the sisters ! Why should I have 
been kept from them so long? Do you know, 
Antonio ; I will confess to you, I am no longer 
innocent, I would too gladly adorn my person ; 
and it gives me so much pleasure when they say 
that T am lovely ! In the convent they told me 
that it w r as only the children of sin who thought 
in ihis way.” 

“ Oh that my thoughts were as innocent as 
yours !” said I, bowing myself before her, and 
kissing her hand. 

She then told me that she remembered how 
I had danced her on my arm when she was lit- 
tle and had drawn pictures for her. 


99 

“ And which you tore in pieces after you had 
looked at them,” said I. 

“ That w r as hateful of me !” said she ; “ but 
you are not angry with me for it?” 

“ I have seen my heart’s best pictures torn in 
pieces since then,” said I ; “ and yet I was not 
angry with those who did it.” 

She stroked me affectionately on the cheek. 

More and more dear did she become to my 
heart, that, indeed, had been repulsed by all the 
world ; she alone was affectionate and sympa- 
thising. 

In the two warmest summer months the fam- 
ily removed to Tivoli ; I accompanied them, for 
which I certainly had to thank Flaminia. The 
glorious scenery there, the rich olive-groves, 
and the foaming waterfall, seized upon my soul 
as the sea had seized upon it, when I had seen 
it for the first time at Terracina. I felt myself 
so exhilarated to leave Rome, the yellow Cam- 
pagna around it, and the oppressive heat. The 
first breath from the mountains, with their dark 
olive-groves, brought again life’s pictures from 
Naples back to my soul. 

Frequently, and with great delight, Flaminia 
rode, with her maid, upon asses, through the 
mountain valley of Tivoli; and I was permitted 
to attend them. Flaminia had much taste for 
the picturesque beauty of nature, and I there- 
fore attempted to make sketches of the rich 
neighbourhood ; the boundless Campagna, when 
the cupola of St. Peter’s raised itself upon the 
horizon ; the fertile sides of the mountains, with 
their thick olive-groves and vineyards ; even 
Tivoli itself, which lay aloft on the cliffs, below 
which waterfall upon waterfall fell foaming into 
the abyss. 

. “ It looks,” said Flaminia, “ as if the whole 
city stood upon loose pieces of rock, which the 
water would soon tear down. Up above those, 
in the street, one never dreams about it, but 
goes with a light step above an open grave !” 

“So, indeed, do we alw r ays !” replied I ; “it 
is well and happy for us, that it is concealed 
from our eyes. The foaming waterfalls which 
we see hurled down here, have in them some- 
thing disturbing, but how much more terrible 
must it be in Naples, where fire is thrown up 
like water here !” 

I then told her about Vesuvius, of my ascent 
to it ; told her about Herculaneum and Pompeii, 
and she drank in every word of my lips. When 
we were at home again, she begged me to tell 
her more about all the glorious things on the 
other side of the Marshes. 

The sea she could not rightly understand, for 
she had only seen it from the top of the mount- 
ains, like a silver riband on the horizon. I told 
her that it was, like God’s heaven, spread out 
upon the earth, and she folded her hands, and 
said, “ God has made the world infinitely beau- 
tiful !” 

“ Therefore man ought not to turn himself 
away from the glory of His works, and immure 
himself up in a dark convent !” I would have 
said, but I dared not. 

One day we stood beside the old Sibyl’s Tem- 
ple, and looked down upon the two great water- 
falls, which, like clouds, were hurled into the 
chasm, whilst a column of spray mounted up- 
wards among the green trees, towards the blue 
air ; the sunbeams fell upon the column, am 


100 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


caused a rainbow. Withir the cavern in the I 
cliff, above the lesser waterfall, a flock of doves 
had established themselves ; they flew in wide 
circles below us, and above the great mass of 
water, which is shivered in its fall. 

“ How glorious !” exclaimed Flaminia ; ‘-now 
improvise for me also, Antonio !” said she, 

“ now sing to me a poem about what you see !” 

I thought upon my heart’s dream, which had 
all been shivered like the water-stream here, 
and I obeyed her, and sang. Sang how life 
burst forth like the stream, but yet every drop 
of it did not drink in the sunbeam, it was only 
over the whole, over the whole human race, 
that the glory of beauty diffused itself. 

“ No ! any thing sorrowful I will not hear !” 
said Flaminia ; “ you shall not sing me any 
thing if you do not like to do it. I do not know 
how it is, Antonio, but I do not consider you 
like the other gentlemen whom I know ! I can 
say any thing to you ! You seem to me almost 
like my father and my mother !” 

I possessed* also her confidence as she did 
mine, there was so much which agitated my 
soul, that I longed for sympathy. One evening 
I related to her much of my childhood’s life, 
of my ramhle in the Catacombs, of the flower- 
feast in Genzano, and of my mother's death, 
when the horses of Excellenza went over us. 
Of that she had never heard. 

“ 0 Madonna !” said she, “ thus are we 
guilty of your misfortune! Poor Antonio!” 
she took my hand, and looked sorrowfully into 
rny face. . She was greatly interested in old 
Domenica ; inquired whether I frequently, visit- 
ed her, and I took shame to myself to confess, 
that during the last year, I- had only been twice 
out there ; although in Rome I had seen her 
more frequently, and had always divided my 
little wealth with her, but that was indeed no- 
thing to speak of. 

She besought of me always- to tell her more, 
and so, when I had related to her ail about my 
life in childhood, I told her of Bernardo and 
Annuneiata, and she looked with an inexpres- 
sibly pious expression into my very soul. The 
nearness of innocence directed my words. I 
told her about Naples, touching lightly, very 
lightly upon the shadowy side, and yet she 
shuddered at what I told,, shuddered before 
Santa, the serpent of-beauty in my Paradise. 

“No, no!” exclaimed she, “thither will I 
never go ! No sea, no burning mountain, can 
cleanse away all the sin and abomination of the 
great city ! You are good and pious, and there- 
fore did the Madonna protect you !” 

I thought of the image of the Mother of God, 
which had fallen down from the wall when my 
lips met Santa’s ; but this I could not tell to 
Flaminia ; would she then have called me good 
and pious 1 I was a sinner like the others. 
Circumstances, the mercy of the Mother of 
God, had watched over me. In the moment of 
temptation I was weak as any of those whom 
I knew. 

Lara was inexpressibly dear to her. “ Yes,” 
said she, “ when your soul was in God’s heav- 
en, could she only come to you ! I can very 
well fancy her, fancy the blue, beaming grotto, 
where you saw her for the last time !” 

Annuneiata did not rightly please her ; “ How 
could she love the hateful Bernardo \ I would 


rather ( not that she had been your wife. A 
woman who thus can come forward before a 
whole public ; a woman — yes, I cannot proper- 
ly make that intelligible which I mean ! I feel, 
however, how beautiful she was, how wise, 
how many advantages she possessed above 
other women, but it does not seem to me that 
she was worthy of you. Lara was a better 
guardian angel lor you !” 

I must now tell her of my improvisation ; 
and to her it seemed that it would be much 
more terrible in the great theatre, than before 
the robbers in the mountain cave. I shewed 
her the Diario Napoli, in which was the critique 
on my first appearance ; how often had I read 
it since then ! 

It amused her to see every thing which that 
paper from the foreign city contained. All at, 
once she looked up and exclaimed, “ But you 
never told me, however, that Annuneiata was 
in Naples at the same time you were there. 
Here it is stated that she will make her appear- 
ance on the morrow, that is on the day upon 
which you set out !” 

“Annuneiata!” stammered I, and stared at 
the paper, into which I had so often looked be- 
fore, and yet, truly enough, had never read any 
thing but what had reference to myself. 

“ That I never saw !” exclaimed I ; and we 
looked silently at each other. “ God be praised 
that I did not meet her, did not see her — she 
was indeed not mine !” . 

“ But if it were to happen now,” asked Fla- 
minia ; “ would it not please you 1” 

“ It would be painful to me !” exclaimed I, 
“great suffering. The Annuneiata who capti- 
vated me, who still exists idolised in my mem- 
ory, I shall never again find ; she would be to 
me a new creature, w r ho would painfully excite 
a remembrance which I must forget, must re- 
gard as the property of death ! She stands 
among my dead !” 

On one warm Wednesday, I entered the 
large general sitting-room, where the thick green 
twining plants overshadowed the window. Fla- 
minia sat, supporting her head upon her .hand, 
in a light slumber ; it seemed as if she were 
keeping her eyes closed only for sport. Her 
breast heaved, she dreamed. “ Lara !” said 
she. In dreams she certainly floated with my 
heart’s dream-image, in that splendid world 
where I last had seen her. A smile parted her 
lips ; she opened her eyes. 

“Antonio !” said she, “I have been asleep, 
and have dreamed. Do you know of whom 1” 

“ Lara !” said I ; for I too could not but think 
of her when I saw Flaminia with closed eyes. 

“ I dreamt about her !” said she. “We both 
of us flew far over the great, beautiful sea, which 
you have told me about. Amid the water there 
lay a rock, on which you sat, looking very much 
dejected, as you often do. She then said that 
we would fly down to you, and she sank through 
the air down to you. I too wished to go with 
her, but the air kept me far aloft, and with eve- 
ry stroke of my wings, which I made to follow 
her, I seemed to fly farther away. But when I 
fancied that there lay thousands of miles be- 
tween us, she was at my side, and you also !” 

“ Thus will death assemble us !” said I. 
“ Death is rich, he possesses every thing which 
has been dearest to our hearts !” 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


101 


I spoke with her about my beloved dead, the 
dead even of my thoughts, of my affections, and 
we often turned back to these reminiscences. 

She then asked me if I would also think of 
her when we were separated. Very soon she 
should be really again in the convent, a nun, the 
bride of Christ, and we should never see each 
other more. 

Deep suffering penetrated my soul at this 
thought; I felt right livingly how dear Flaminia 
had become to me. 

One day, when she, and her mother, and I, 
were walking in the garden of the Villa d’Este, 
where the tall cypresses grow, we went up the 
long alley which runs up to the artificial fount- 
ain. Here lay a ragged beggar pulling up the 
grass from the walk, and, as soon as he saw 
us, he prayed for a bajocco. I gave him a pa- 
olo, and Flaminia smiled kindly, and gave him 
another. 

“ Madonna reward the young Excellenza and 
his handsome bride !” cried he after us. 

Francesca laughed aloud ; it ran like burning 
fire through my blood, I had not courage to look 
at Flaminia. In my soul a thought had awoke, 
which I had never dared to unveil before to my- 
self. Slowly, but firmly, had Flaminia grown 
into my heart ; it must bleed, I felt, when we 
parted from each other. She was the only one 
to whom my soul now clung ; the only one who 
affectionately met my thoughts and feelings. 
Was it love? Did I love her? The feeling 
which Annunciata had awoke in my soul was 
very different, even the sight of Lara, the re- 
membrance of her, had something much more 
allied to this feeling. Intellect and beauty had 
capti vated me in Annunciata ; ideal beauty min- 
gled itself with the first view of Lara, which 
made my heart swell. No, this was not my love 
for Flaminia. It was not the wild, burning pas- 
sion ; it was friendship ; a brother’s most living 
love. I felt the connexion in which I stood to 
her, with regard to her family and her destina- 
tion, and was in despair at the thought of sep- 
aration from her; she was to me my all, — my 
dearest in this world ; but I had no wish to 
press her to my heart, to breathe a kiss upon 
her lips, as had been my whole thoughts with 
regard to Annunciata, and which, as an invisi- 
ble power, had driven me towards the blind 
girl ; no, this was to me quite foreign. 

“ The young Excellenza and his handsome 
bride !” as the beggar had cried, resounded con- 
tinually in my soul. I sought to read every 
wish on Flaminia’s lips, and hung about her 
like her shadow. When others were present, I 
became constrained and dejected. I felt the 
thousand bonds which pressed heavily upon 
me ; I became silent and absent, for her alone 
was I eloquent. She was so dear to me, and I 
must lose her. 

“Antonio!” said she, “you are unwell, or 
something has happened which I may not know ? 
Why 'not? may I not?” 

With her whole soul she depended on me, 
and I desired to be to her a dear, faithful broth- 
er ; and yet my conversation perpetually tended 
to lead her out into the world. I told her how 
I myself had once wished to be a monk, and 
how unhappy I should have been if I had be- 
come so, because sooner or later the heart as- 
serts its rights. 


“ I,” said she, “shall feel myself happy, very 
happy, to return again to my pious sisters — 
among them I am only rightly at home. Then 
I shall very often think upon the time when I 
was out in the world, shall think of every thing 
of which you have told me. It will be a beau- 
tiful dream, I feel it so already. I shall pray 
for you, pray that the wicked world may never 
corrupt you ; that you may become very hap- 
py, and that the world may rejoice in your 
song, and that you may feel how good the dear 
God is to you and to us altogether.” 

Tears streamed from my eyes ; I sighed 
deeply, “ We shall then never see each other 
more !” 

“Yes, with God and the Madonna!” said 
she, and smiled piously. “ There you shall 
shew me Lara ! there also shall she receive the 
sight of her eyes. Oh, yes, with the Madonna 
it is the best !” 

We removed again to Rome. In a few 
weeks, I heard it said, that Flaminia was to re- 
turn to the convent, and shortly after that to 
take the veil. My heart was rent with pain, 
and yet I was obliged to conceal it. How for- 
lorn and desolate should I not be when she had 
left us ! how like a stranger and alone should 
I not stand ! what grief of heart I should ex- 
perience ! I endeavoured to hide it — to be 
cheerful — to be quite different to what I was. 

They spoke of the pomp of her investiture as 
if it had been a feast of gladness. But could 
she, however, go away from us? They had 
befooled her mind, they had befooled her un- 
derstanding. Her beautiful long hair was to 
be cut away from her head, the living was to be 
clothed in a shroud ; she would hear the funer- 
al bells ring, and only as the dead rise up the 
bride of heaven. I said this to Flaminia. With 
an anguish as of death besought of her to think 
about what she was doing, of thus going down 
alive to the grave. 

“ Let nobody hear what you are saying, 
Antonio !” said she, with a solemnity which I 
had never seen in’ her before. “ The world has 
all too firm a hold upon you, look more to that 
which is heavenly.” 

She became crimson, seized my hand, as if 
she had spoken to me with too much severity, 
and said, with the most heartfelt gentleness, 
“ You will not distress me, Antonio ?” 

I then sank down before her feet, she stood 
like a saint before me, my whole soul clung to 
her. How many tears did I shed that night ! 
my strong feeling for her seemed to me a sin, 
she was really the bride of the church. I daily 
saw her, daily learned to value her more high- 
ly. She talked to me like a sister, looked into 
my face, offered me her hand, said that her 
soul was filled with desires for me, and that I 
was dear to her. I convulsively concealed the 
night of death which lay in my soul, and it 
made me happy that it was known to no one. 
God send death to a heart which suffers as 
mine suffered ! 

The moment of separation stood horribly be- 
fore me, and a wicked spirit whispered into my 
ear, “ Thou lovest her !” and I really did not 
love her as I had loved Annunciata, my heart 
trembled not as it had done when my lips touch- 
ed Lara’s forehead. “ Say to Flaminia, that 
thou canst not live without her ; she also is at- 


102 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


tached to thee as a sister to a brother. Say 
that thou lovest her ! Excellenza and the whole 
family will condemn thee, turn thee out into the 
world : but then in losing her thou losest every 
thing. The choice is easy !” 

How often did this confession arise to my lips, 
but my heart trembled, and I w r as silent ; it was 
a fever, a fever of death, which agitated my 
blood, my thoughts ! 

All was in a state of preparation within the 
palace for a splendid ball, a flower-festival for 
the sacrificial tomb. I saw her in the rich, mag- 
nificent dress, she was unspeakably lovely. 

“ Now be gay like the others !” she whisper- 
ed to me ; “ it distresses me to see you so de- 
jected. Often shall I certainly, for your sake, 
w T hen I am sitting in my convent, send my 
thoughts back to the world, and that* is sin, An- 
tonio. Promise me that you will become more 
cheerful — promise me that you will forgive my 
father and mother when they are a little severe 
towards you. They mean it for your good. 
Promise me that you will not think so much on 
the bitterness of the world, and will be always 
good and pious as you now are ; then I may dare 
still to think of you, still to pray for you, and 
Madonna is good and merciful.” 

Her words penetrated my heart. I see her 
yet as she was that last evening before she left 
us — she was so merry. She kissed her father 
and the old Excellenza, and spoke of the separa- 
tion as if-it were only for a few days. 

“ Now say farewell to Antonio,” said Fabiani, 
who was much affected, while the others ap- 
peared not to be so. I hastily hurried up to her, 
and bowed to kiss her hand. 

“ Antonio !” said she ; her. voice was so low, 
tears streamed frorn my eyes. “ Mayst thou 
be happy !” 

I knew not howto tear myself away ; for the 
last time I looked into her pious, gentle counte- 
nance. 

“ Farewell !” said she, scarcely audibly. She 
bent towards me, and, impressing a kiss upon 
my forehead, said, “ Thanks for thy affection, 
my dear brother !” 

More I know not ! I rushed out of the hall 
and into my own chamber, where I could weep 
freely ; it was as if the world sank away from 
under my feet. 

And I saw her yet once more ! When the 
time was accomplished I saw her. The sun 
shone so warm and cheerfully. I saw Flaminia 
in all her rich pomp and magnificence, as she 
was led up to the altar by her father and her 
mother. I heard plainly the singing, and per- 
ceived 'that many people were kneeling all 
around, but there stood distinctly before me 
only the pale, mild countenance — an angel it 
was — which kneeled with the priests before the 
high altar. 

I saw how they took the costly veil from her 
head, and the abundant hair fell down upon her 
shoulders ; I heard the shears divide it — they 
stripped her of her rich clothing — she stretched 
herself upon the bier ; the pall and the black 
cloth, upon which are painted death’s heads, 
were thrown over her. The church-bells tolled 
for the burial procession, and the song for the 
dead was intoned. Yes, deadw’as she — buried 
to this world. 

The black grate before the entrance to the in- 


terior to the convent w r as raised, the sistere 
stood in their white linen vestments, and sang 
the angel’s welcome to their new sister. The 
bishop extended to her his hand, and the bride 
of heaven arose. Elizabeth, she was now call- 
ed. I saw the last glance which she directed 
to the assembly; after this she gave her hand 
to the nearest sister, and entered into the grave 
of life. 

The black grating fell ! I still saw the out- 
line of her figure — the last wave of her garment 
— and she was gone ! 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

OLD DOMENICA THE DISCOVERY THE EVENING 

IN NEPI THE BOATMAN’S SONG VENICE. 

Congratulations were now offered in the 
Borghese Palace. Flaminia-Elizabeth was re- 
ally the bride of heaven. Francesca’s serious- 
ness was not concealed by her artificial smile ; 
the tranquillity which lay on her countenance 
was banished from her heart. 

Fabiani, most deeply affected, said to me, 
“ You have lost your best benefactress ! You 
have reason for being very much depressed ! 
She desired me to give you some scudi,” con- 
tinued he, “for old Domenica; you have cer- 
tainly spoken to her about your old foster- 
mother. Take her these, they are Flaminia’s 
gift.” 

The dead lay like a snake around my heart ; 
my thoughts were life’s weariness, I trembled 
before them, before them self-murder seemed 
to lose its terrors. 

“ Out into the free air !” thought I ; “to the 
home of my childhood, where Domenica sang 
cradle-songs to me ; where I played and dream- 
ed.” 

Yellow and scorched lay the Campagna ; not 
a green blade spoke of the hope of life ; the 
yellow Tiber rolled its waves towards the sea 
in order to vanish there. I saw again the old 
burial-place, with the thick ivy over the roof, 
and depending from the walls ; the little world 
which, as a child, I had called my own. The 
door stood open ; a pleasant melancholy feel- 
ing filled my heart ; I thought of Domenica’s 
affection and her joy at seeing me. It certain- 
ly was a year since I had last been out there, 
and eight months since I had spoken with her 
in Rome, and she had prayed me to go very 
often to see her. I had very often thought about 
her, had talked of her to Flaminia ; but our 
summer residence in Tivoli and my excited 
state of mind since our return had prevented 
my going out to the Campagna. 

I heard, in thought, her scream of joy as she 
saw me, and hastened my steps ; but when I 
came pretty near the door, walked very softly 
to prevent her hearing me. I looked into the 
room ; in the middle of the room stood a great 
iron-pan over a fire, some reeds were laid upon 
it, and a young fellow blew them ; he turned hie 
head and saw me ; it was Pietro, the little ch A, 
which I had nursed here. 

“Saint Joseph!” exclaimed he, and sprung 
up overjoyed, “ is it your Excellency ! It is a 
long, long time since you were so gracious aa 
to come here !” 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


103 


I extended to him my hand, which he would 
kiss. 

“ Nay, nay, Pietro !” said I “ it almost 
seems as if I had forgotten my old friends, but I 
have not.” 

“ No, the good old mother said so too,” cried 
he ; “ 0 Madonna ! how glad she wmuld have 
been to have seen you !” 

“Where is Domenical” inquired I. 

“Ah!” returned he; “it is now half a-year 
since she was laid under the earth. She died 
whilst Excellenza was in Tivoli. She was only 
ill for a few days, but through all that time she 
talked about her dear Antonio. Yes, Excellen- 
za, do not be angry that I call you by that name, 
but she was so very fond of you. ‘ Would that 
my eyes could see him before they are closed !’ 
said she, and longed so very much for it. And 
when I. saw very w T ell that she could not last 
the night over, I went in the afternoon to 
Rome ; I knew very well that you would not 
be angry at my request. I would have prayed 
of you to have accompanied me to the old 
mother, but when I got there you and the gen- 
tlefolks were all gone to Tivoli ; so I came 
home full of trouble ; but when I came to the 
house she was already gone to sleep.” 

He held his hands before his face and wept. 

Every word which he had said fell heavily 
upon my heart. I had been her dying thought, 
and, at the same time, my thoughts had been 
far away from her. Would that I had only said 
farewell to her before I set off for Tivoli ! I 
was not a good man ! 

I gave the money. to Pietro from Flaminia, 
and all that I had also. He sank down upon 
his knees before me, and called me his guardian 
angel. It sounded like a jest in my heart. 
With a two-fold sense of suffering, cut, as it 
were, to the very heart, I left the Carnpagna. 
I know not how I reached home. 

For three long days I lay without conscious- 
ness in a violent fever. God knows what, du- 
ring this time, I said ; but Fabiani frequently 
came to me ; he had appointed the deaf Fenel- 
la to be my nurse. No one named Flaminia to 
me. I had returned home ill from the Cam- 
pagna, and had laid myself immediately on my 
bed, when the .fever took hold upon me. 

I recovered my strength, but very slowly ; in 
vain I endeavoured to compel myself to humour 
and cheerfulness ; I was possessed of neither. 

It was about six weeks after this time, when 
Flaminia took the veil, that the physician per- 
mitted me to go out. Almost without knowing 
whither I directed my steps, I went to the 
Porta pia ; my eye gazed down upon the Quat- 
tri Fontane, but I had not courage enough to 
pass the convent. Some evenings, however, 
after this, when the new moon shone in the 
heavens, the emotions of my heart drew me 
thither ; I saw the grey convent walls, the grated 
windows, Flaminia’s closed grave. “Where- 
fore dared I not to see the burial-place of the 
dead!” said I to myself, and felt within me a 
resolution to do so. 

Every evening I took my way past there. 
“1 was very fond of walking to the Villa Al- 
bani,” said I to those of my acquaintance whom 
I met by chance. “ God knows what will be 
the end of it !” sighed my heart ; “ I cannot 
endure it long !” I was then just at the goal. 


It was a dark evening ; a ray of light stream 
ed down the wall of the convent ; I leaned my- 
self against the corner of a house, fixed my 
eyes upon this bright point, and thought on 
Flaminia. 

“Antonio!” said a voice close behind me, 
“ Antonio, what are you doing here!” 

It was Fabiani. “Follow me home!” said 
he. 

I accompanied him ; we spoke not a word by 
the way ; he knew it all as well as I myself 
did ; I felt that he did so. I was an ingrate ; I 
had not courage to look at him. Presently, and 
we w r ere alone in my chamber. . 

“You are yet ill, Antonio,” said he, with an 
unusual solemnity in his voice. “You need 
occupation, change of scen6. It will do you 
good to mix more in the world. There was a 
time when you spread out your wings for free- 
dom ; perhaps it was unjust in me that I de- 
coyed the bird back to his cage. It is a great 
deal better for human beings to have their will, 
then if misfortunes befall them they have only 
themselves to blame. You are quite old enough 
to direct your own steps. A little journey 
will be beneficial to you ; the physician is of 
the same opinion also. You have already seen 
Naples, visit now the north of Italy. I shall 
provide the means for it. It is the best thing 
for you, necessary, and,” added he, with a se- 
riousness, a severity, which I had never known 
in him before, “ I am convinced that you will 
never forget the benefits w r hich we have con- 
ferred upon you. Never occasion us mortifi- 
cation, shame, and sorrow, which indiscretion 
or blind passion might do. A man can do any 
thing, whatever he will, if he be only a good 
man.” 

His words struck me to the earth like a flash 
of lightning;- I bent my knee, and pressed his 
hand to my lips. 

“ I know very well,” said he, half-jestingly, 
“that we may have done you injustice; that 
we have been unreasonable and severe. No 
persons, however, will intend more uprightly 
and more kindly towards you, than we have 
done. You will hear more flattering modes of 
speech, more loving words, but not more true 
integrity than we have shewn you. For a year 
you shall move about. Let us then see what 
is your state of mind, and whether we have 
done you an injustice.” 

With these words he left me. 

Had the world still new suffering for me — 
still fresh poison-drops 1 Even the only draught 
of consolation, freedom to fly about in God’s 
world, fell like gall into my deep wound. Far 
from Rome, far from the south, where lay all 
the flowers of my remembrance, over the Ap- 
ennines, toward the north, where there actu- 
ally lay snow upon the lofty mountains ! Cold 
blown from the Alps into my warm blood 1 
Toward the north, to the floating Venice, the 
bride of the sea ! God ! let me never more re- 
turn to Rome, to the grave of my cherished 
memories ! Farewell, my home, my native 
city ! 

The carriage rolled across the desolate Cam- 
pagna. The dome of St. Peter’s was conceal- 
ed behind the hills. We drove past' Monte 
Sorecte, across the mountains, to the narrow 
Nepi. It was a bright, moonlight evening.^ A 


104 


THE IMPROV1SATORE. 


monk was preaching before the door of the ho- 
tel : the crowd repeated his Viva Santa Maria ! 
and followed him, singing through the streets. 
The crowd of people carried me along with 
them. The old aqueduct, with its thick, twi- 
ning plants, and the dark olive groves around, 
formed a dark picture, which corresponded to 
my state of mind. 

I passed through the gate by which I had 
entered. Just outside of this lay the vast ruins 
of a castle or convent, the broad highroad run- 
ning through its dilapidated halls, a little path 
turned from the main-road, and led into the 
midst of them ; ivy and maiden’s hair grew 
dependingly from the w$lls of the solitary cells. 
I entered into a large hall ; tall grass grew 
above the rubbish* and the overthrown capitals, 
enwreathing vine-shoots moved their broad 
leaves through the great Gothic windows, 
where now were only small remains of loosely 
hanging painted glass. Aloft, upon the walls, 
grew bushes and hedges ; the beams of the 
moon fell upon a fresco-painting of Saint Sebas- 
tian, who stood bleeding, and pierced with an 
arrow. Deep organ-tones resounded, as it 
seemed, continuously through the hall ; I fol- 
lowed the sounds, and passing out through a 
narrow door, found myself among myrtle-hedges 
and luxuriant vine-leaves, close to a perpendic- 
ular descent of great depth, down which a wa- 
terfall was precipitated, foamingly white, in the 
clear moonlight. 

The whole romantic scene would have sur- 
prised any mind, yet perhaps my distress would 
have allowed it to slide out of my memory, had 
not that which I saw further impressed it pain- 
fully, deeply into my heart. I followed the 
narrow, almost overgrown path, close to the 
afbyss, towards the broad highway. Close be- 
side me, from over the lofty, white wall, upon 
which the moon was shining, stared three pale 
heads, behind an iron-grating, the heads of 
three executed robbers, which, as in Rome, on 
the Porta del Angelo, were placed in iron-cages, 
to serve ad a terror and a warning to others. 
There was to me nothing terrible in them. In 
earlier days, the sight would have driven me 
away from hence ; but suffering makes philos- 
ophers. The bold head, which had been occu- 
pied by thoughts of death and plunder, the 
mountain's daring eagle, was now a silent, cap- 
tive bird, which sat quietly and rationally in its 
cage, like other imprisoned birds. I stepped 
up quite close to them ; they had certainly been 
placed there within these very few days, every 
feature was still recognisable. But, as I gazed 
on the middle one, my^ pulse beat stronger ; it 
was the head of an old woman ! The skin was 
"yellow-brown, the eyes half open, the long sil- 
ver-white hair, which hung through the grating, 
waved in the wind. My eye fell upon the stone 
tablet in the wall, where, according to old cus- 
tom, the name and crime of the executed were 
engraved. Here stood “ Fulvia.” I saw also 
the name of her native city, “Frascati and, 
agitated to the very depths of my soul, I stepped 
back a few paces. 

Fulvia, the singular old woman, who had 
once saved my life, she who had obtained the 
means for my going to Naples, my life’s inex 
plicable spirit, did I thus meet with her again ! 
With these paie, blue lips had she once pressed 


my forehead ; these lips, which, to the crowd, 
had spoken prophetic words, had given life and 
death, were now silent, breathing forth horror 
from their very silence ! Thou didst prophesy 
my fortune ! Thy bold eagle lies with clipped 
wings, and has never reached the sun ! In the 
combat with his misfortune, he sink3 down 
into the great Nemi-lake of life ! His pinion is 
broken ! 

I burst into tears, repeated Fulvia’s name, 
and slowly retraced my steps through the des- 
olate ruins. Never shall I forget that evening 
in Nepi. 

The next morning we journeyed onward, and 
came to Ferni, where is the largest and most 
beautiful waterfall in Italy. I rode from the 
city through the thick, dark olive-gvoves, the 
first which I had penetrated ; wet clouds hung 
around the summits of the mountains, every 
thing to the north of Rome appeared to me 
dark, nothing smiling and beautiful, as the 
marshes and as the orange-gardens of Terra- 
cina, where the green palm-trees grow. Per- 
haps it was my own heart which gave the whole 
this dark colouring. 

We went through a garden ; a luxuriant or- 
ange-alley extended itself between the rocky 
wall and the river, which rushed onward with 
the speed of an arrow. Between the rocks I 
saw a cloud of spray ascend high up in the path, 
upon which a rainbow played. We ascended 
amid a wilderness of rosemary and myrtle ; 
and, from the very summit of the mountain, 
above the sloping, rocky wall, was hurled the 
monstrous mass of waters. A lesser arm of 
the river moved along, like a broad silver rib- 
and close beside, and united below the rocks to 
form a broad cascade, which, white as milk, 
whirled itself down the black chasm. I thought 
upon the cascades at Tivoli, where I had im- 
provised to Flaminia. The lofty, rushing stream 
sang to me with a penetratingly thrilling organ- 
tone the remembrance of my loss and my suf- 
fering. To be crushed, to die, and vanish, is 
the lot of Nature ! 

“Here,” said our. guide, “was an English 
man shot last year by robbers. It was a band 
from the Sabine mountains, although one may 
say that they have a home in all»the mountains 
from Rome to Ferni. The authorities are now 
always so much on the alert ! They laid their 
hands on three unfortunates ; I saw them driv- 
en to the city chained to the cart. At the gate 
sat the wise Fulvia, as we called her, from the 
Sabine mountains ; she was old, and yet al- 
ways young ; she knew more than many a 
monk who will get the cardinal’s hat ; she 
could tell fortunes in figurative words ; and 
since these people have said that it was a sign 
that she was in connexion with them. Now 
they have taken her and many of the robbers ; 
her hour was come", so now ner head is pmced 
grinning over the gate at Nepi.” 

It was as if every thing, man as woff as na 
ture, would cast night into my soul ; I felt a 
desire with the speed of the wind to chase 
through the country. The dark olive-groves 
threw more shadow into my soul ; the mount- 
ains oppressed me. Away to the sea, where 
the wind blew ! to the sea, where one heaven 
bore us, and another vaulted itself above us \ 
The world's grief must be great when my lot 
was to be envied ! 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


105 


To the sea, the wonderful sea ’ That is to 
me a new world. To Venice, the strangely 
floating city, the queen of the Adriatic ! But 
not through the dark woods, the together-com- 
pressing mountains, quick, in easy flight over 
the billows ! So dreamed my thoughts. 

It had been my plan to go first to Florence, 
and therefore through Bologna and Ferrara. I 
altered this, however, left the vctturino in Spo- 
leto, took a place in the mail, aod posted over 
the Apennines in the dark night, through Lo- 
retto, without even visiting its holy house. Ma- 
donna, forgive me my sin ! 

High up, on the mountain-road, I had already 
discerned the Adriatic Sea as a silver stripe on 
the horizon ; the mountains lay like gigantic 
waves below me, and now I saw the blue, heav- 
ing sea, with its national pennons and flags upon 
its ships. I thought of Naples as I saw this ; 
but no Vesuvius heaved itself with its black 
eolumn of smoke, no Capri lay beyond. I slept 
here one night, and dreamed of Fulvia and Fla- 
minia. “The palm-tree of thy fortune is bud- 
ding green !” said they both, and smiled. I 
awoke, and the day was shining into my cham- 
ber. 

“Signor!” said the waiter; “a vessel lies 
here which is about ready to sail for Venice ; 
but .will you not first of all see our city 1” 

“ To Venice !” cried I, “ quick, quick ! t-h-at is 
exactly my wish.” 

An inexplicable feeling drove me onward. I 
stepped on board, ordered my light luggage to 
be sent after me, and looked out over the infi- 
nite sea. “ Farewell, my fatherland !” Now, 
for the first time, I seemed rightly to have 
flown forth into the world, as my feet no longer 
trod upon the earth. I knew perfectly that the 
north of Italy would present to me a n£w style 
of scenery. Venice itself Was really so differ- 
ent to any other Italian city ; a richly adorned 
bride for the mighty sea. The winged Vene- 
tian lion waved on the flag above me. The 
sails swelled in the wind, and concealed the 
coast from me. I sat upon the. right side of 
the ship, and looked out across the blue, billowy 
sea ; a young lad sat not far from me, and sang 
a Venetian song about the bliss of love and the 
shortness of life. 

“ Kiss the red lips, on the morrow thou art 
with the dead ; love, whilst thy heart is young, 
and thy blood is fire and flame ! Grey hairs 
are the flowers of death : then is the blood rce : 
then is the flame extinguished ! Come into 
the Hght gondola ! We sit concealed under its 
roof, we cover the windows, we close the door, 
nobody sees thee, my love ! Nobody sees how 
nappy we are. We are rocked upon the waves ; 
the waves embrace, and so do we ! Love 
whilst youth is in thy blood. Age kills with 
frost and with snow !”. 

As he sung, he smiled and nodded to the oth- 
ers around him ; and they sang in chorus, about 
kissing and loving while the heart was young. 
It was a merry song, very merry; and yet it 
sounded like a magical song of death in my 
heart. Yes, the years sped aw T ay, the flames 
of youth are extinguished. I had poured the 
holy oil of love out over the earth, which kin- 
dled neither light nor warmth : to be sure it 
does no damage ; but it flows into the grave, 
without brightening or warming. No promise, 

0 


indeed, binds me — no obligation ! Why do not 
my lips snatch at the refreshing draught of af- 
fection which they pine for ! I had a feeling ; 
yes — how shall I call it 1 — a dissatisfaction with 
myself. Was it the wild fire in my breast, 
which had scorched up my understanding ? I 
felt a sort of bitterness against myself for hav- 
ing fled from Santa. The holy image of the 
Madonna fell down ! It was the rusted nail 
which gave way ; and the Jesuit-school's con- 
ventual bashfulness, and the goat’s milk in my 
blood, chased me thence. How beautiful Santa 
was ! I saw her burning, affectionate glance, 
and I grew angry with myself! Wherefore 
should I not be like Bernardo, like a thousand 
others, like all my young friends ! None, none 
of all these would have been a fool as I had 
been. My heart desired love : God had or- 
dained it, who had implanted this feeling with- 
in me. I was still young, however: Venice 
was a gay city, full of beautiful women. And 
what does the world give me for my virtue, 
thought I, for my child-like temper 1 Ridicule 
and time bring bitterness and grey hairs. Thus 
thought I, and sang in chorus with the rest, of 
kissing and loving, whilst the heart was yet 
young. 

It was delirium, the madness of suffering, 
which excited these thoughts in my soul. He 
who gave to me my life, my feelings, and di 
rected my whole destiny, will lead me in love. 
There are combats, thoughts even, which the 
most mortal dare not to express, because the 
angel of Innocence in our breast regards them 
as sinful. They who indulge the longings of 
their hearts may philosophise beautifully over 
my speech. Judge not, lest ye be judged ! I 
felt it — in myself — in my. own corrupt nature, 
there abode no good thing. I could not pray ; 
and yet I slept w r hilst the vessel flew onward to 
the north — to the rich Venice. 

In the morning hour, I discerned the white 
buildings and towers of Venice, which seemed 
like a crowd of ships with outspread sails. To 
the left stretched itself the kingdom of Lom- 
bardy,. w r ith its flat coast: the Alps seemed 
like pale blue mist in the horizon. Here was 
the heaven wide. Here the half of the hemi- 
sphere could mirror itself in the heart. 

In this sweet morning air my thoughts were 
milder : I was more cheerful. I thought about 
the history of Venice, of the city’s wealth and 
pomp, its independence and supremacy : of the 
magnificent doges, and their marriage with the 
sea. We advanced nearer and nearer to the 
sea : I could already distinguish the individual 
houses across the Lagunes ; but their yellow- 
grey walls, neither old nor new, did not wear a 
pleasing aspect. St.. Mark’s Tower I had also 
imagined to be much loftier. We sailed in be- 
tween the mainland and the Lagunes, which, 
like a crooked wall of earth, stretched out into 
the sea. Every where it was flat. The shore 
seemed to be scarcely an inch higher than the 
surface of the water. A few mean houses they 
called the city Fusina : here and there stood a 
bush ; and, excepting these, there was nothing 
at all on the flat land. I had fancied that we 
were quite close upon Venice, which, however, 
still lay a mile distant ; and, between us and it, 
lay an unsightly muddy water, with broad isl- 
ands of slime, upon which not a single bird 


106 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


could find footing, and not a single blade of 
grass could take root. Through the whole ex- 
tent of this lake were dug deep canals, border- 
ed with great piles to indicate tfieir direction. 
I now saw the gondola for the first time : long 
and narrow, quick as a dart ; but all painted 
coal-black. The little cabin in the centre, cov- 
ered over with black cloth : it was a floating 
hearse, which shot past us with the speed of an 
arrow. The water was no longer blue, as it 
was out in the open sea, or close upon the coast 
of Naples: it was of a dirty green. We ‘pass- 
ed by an island where the houses seemed to 
grow up out of the water, or to have clung to a 
wreck : aloft upon the walls stood the Madon- 
na and the child, and looked out over this des- 
ert. In some places, the surface of the water 
was like a moving, green plain — a sort of duck- 
pool, between the deep sea and the black islands 
of soft mud. The sun shone upon Venice : all 
the bells were ringing ; but it looked neverthe- 
less dead and solitary. Only one ship lay in 
the docks ; and not a single man could I see. 

I stepped down into the black gondola, and 
sailed up into the dead street, where every 
thing was water, not a foot-breadth upon which 
to walk. Large buildings stood with open doors, 
and with steps down to the water ; the water 
ran into the great door-ways, like a canal ; and 
the palace-court itself seemed only a four-cor- 
nered well, into which people could sail, but 
scarcely turn the gondola. The water had left 
its greenish slime upon the walls : the great 
marble palace seemed as if sinking together : 
in the broad windows, rough boards were nail- 
ed up to the gilded half-decayed beams. The 
proud giant-body seemed to be falling away 
peacemeal ; the wholp had an air of depression 
about it. The ringing of the bells ceased, not 
a sound, excepting the splash of the oars in the 
water, was to be heard, and I still saw not a 
human being. The magnificent Venice lay like 
a dead swan upon the waves. 

We crossed about into the other streets. 
Small narrow bridges of masonry hung over 
the canals ; and I now saw people who shipped 
over me, in among the houses, and in among 
the walls even ; for I saw no other streets than 
those in which the gondolas glided. 

“But where do the people walk?” inquired 
I of my gondolier ; and he pointed to small pas- 
sages by the bridges, between the lofty houses. 
Neighbour could reach his hand to neighbour, 
from the sixth story across the street ; three 
people could hardly pass each other below, 
where not a sunbeam found its’way. Our gon- 
dola had passed on, and all was still as death. 

“ Is this Venice ? — The rich bride of the sea? 
— The mistress of the world ?” 

I saw the magnificent square of St. Mark’s. 
“ Here is life !” people said. But how very 
different is it in Naples, nay, even in Rome, 
upon the animated Corso ! And yet the square 
of St. Mark’s is the heart of Venice, where life 
does exist. Shops of books, pearls, and pic- 
tures, adorned the long colonnades, where how- 
ever it was not yet animated enough. A crowd 
of Greeks and Turks, in bright dresses, and 
with long pipes in their mouths, sat quietly out- 
side of the cofFee-houses. The sun shone upon 
the golden cupola of St. Mark’s church, and upon 
the glorious bronze horses over the portal. 


From the red masts of the ships of Cyprus 
Candia, and Morea, depended the motionless 
flags. A flock of pigeons filled the square by 
thousands, and bent daintily upon the broad 
pavement. 

I visited the Ponte Rialto, the pulse-vein of 
which spoke of life ; and I soon comprehended 
the great picture of Venice — the picture of 
mourning — the impression of my own soul. I 
seemed yet to be at sea, only removed from a 
smaller to a greater ship, a floating ark. 

The evening came ; and when the moot* 
beams cast their uncertain light, and diffused 
broader shadows, I felt myself more at home ; 
in the hour of the spirit-world, I could first be- 
come familiar with the dead bride. I stood at 
the open window: the black gondofas glided 
quickly over the dark mooplit waters. I thought 
upon the seaman’s song o‘f kissing and of love ;• 
felt a bitterness towards Annunciata, who had 
preferred the inconstant Bernardo to me ; and 
why ? — perhaps precisely because of the piquan- 
cy which this inconstancy gave him — such are 
women ! I felt bitterness, even towards the 
innocent, pious Flaminia: the tranquillity of 
the convent was more to her than my strong, 
brotherly love. No, no, I would love neither 
of them more : there was an emptiness in my 
heart of all, even of those which had once been 
dear to it. I would think of neither of them, 
I resolved ; and, like an uneasy ghost, my 
thoughts floated between Lara, the image of 
beauty, and Santa, the daughter of sin. 

I entered a gondola, and allowed myself to 
be taken through the streets in the silent even- 
ing. The rowers sung their alternating song, 
but it was not from the “ Gerusalcmme Libcra- 
ta the Venetians had forgotten even the old 
melodies of the heart, for their doges were 
dead, and foreign ’hands had bound the wings 
of the lion, which was harnessed to their tri- 
umphal car. 

“ I will seize upon life — will enjoy it to the 
last drop !” said I, as the gondola lay still. We 
were at the hotel where I lodged. I went to 
my own room, and lay down to sleep. 

Such was my first day in Venice — a dark and 
evil day — a day which left no peace behind it 
But God, like a loving parent in His treatment 
of a wayward child, left me at times to my own 
course, that I might find how far I had gone 
from light and peace. Blessed be His great 
name ! 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE STORM SOIREE AT MY BANKER’S THE 

NIECE OF THE PODESTA. 

The letters which I had brought with me 
obtained for me acquaintances — friends, as 
they called themselves ; and I was the Signor 
Abbe. Nobody instructed me, but they discov 
ered that every thing which I said was good, 
excellent, and that I was possessed of talents. 
From Excellenza and Francesca I often heard 
such things said as were very painful to me ; 
I was often told that which was very unpleas- 
ant for me to hear ; it seemed to me almost as 
if they sought out for every thing bad against 
! me, that they might tell me that there were a 
I great many people who did not at all mean. so 


THE IMPROVISATOR*:. 


107 


kindly by me. Bat this failed of its object. 
Of a certainty I had, however, no honest 
friends, since it was those only who told me 
disagreeable things. But I, however, felt no 
longer my subordinate condition, the sense of 
which not even Flaminia's goodness could re- 
move. 

I had now visited the rich palace of the 
doges, had wandered in the empty, magnificent 
halls; seen the chamber of tlte Inquisition, 
with the frightful picture of the torments of 
hell. I went through a narrow gallery, over a 
covered bridge, high upon the roof, above the 
canals on which the gondolas glided : this is 
the way from the doge’s palace to the prisons 
of Venice. This bridge is called the Bridge of 
Sighs. Close beside it lie the wells. The 
light of the lamp alone from the passage can 
force its way between the close iron bars into 
the uppermost dungeon ; and yet this was a 
cheerful, airy hall, in comparison with those 
which lie lower down, below the swampy cel- 
lars, deeper even than the water outside in the 
canals ; and yet in these unhappy captives had 
sighed, and inscribed their names on the damp 
walls. 

“ Air, air !” demanded my heart, rent with 
the horrors of this place ; and, entering the 
gondola, I flew with the speed of an arrow 
from the pale-red old palace, and from the col- 
umns of St. Theodoret and the Venetian lion, 
forth over the living, green water to the La- 
gunes and Lido, that I might breathe the fresh 
air of the sea — and I found a churchyard. 

Here is the stranger, the Protestant, buriied, 
far from his native country — buried upon a lit- 
tle strip of land among the waves, which day 
by day seem to rend away more and more of 
its small remains. White human bones stuck 
out from the sand ; the billows alone wept over 
them. Here often had . sat the fisherman’s 
bride or wife, waiting for the lover or the hus- 
band, who had gone out fishing upon the un- 
certain sea. The storm arose, and rested 
again upon its strong pinions ; and the woman 
sang her songs out of “ Gerusalemme Liberata ,” 
and listened to hear whether the man replied. 
But love gave no return in song ; alone she 
sat there, and looked out over the silent sea. 
Then, also, her lips became silent ; her eye 
saw only the white bones of the dead in the 
sand ; she heard only the hollow booming of 
the billows, whilst night ascended over the 
dead, silent Venice. 

The dark picture filled my thoughts, my 
whole state of mind gave it a strong colour- 
ing. Solemn as a church, reminding of graves 
and the invisible saints, stood before me the 
entire scene. Flaminia’s words resounded in 
my ear, that the poet, who was a prophet of 
God, should endeavour only to express the glo- 
rification of God, and that subjects which tend- 
ed to this were of the highest character. The 
immortal soul ought to sing of the immortal ; 
the glitter of the moment changed its play of 
colour, and vanished with the instant that gave 
it birth. Kindling strength and inspiration 
fired my soul, but quickly died away again. I 
silently entered the gondola, which bore me to- 
wards Lido. The great open sea lay before 
me, and rolled onward to the shore in long bil- 
lows. I thought of the bay of Amalfi 


Just beside me, among sea-grass and stones, 
sat a young man sketching, certainly a foreign 
painter ; it seemed to me that I recognised 
him, I stepped nearer, he raised his head, and 
we knew each other. It was Poggio, a young 
Venetian nobleman. I had been several times 
in company with him in the families whom I 
visited. 

“ Signore,” exclaimed he, “ you on Lido ! Is 
it the beauty of the scene, or,” added he, “ some 
other beauty which has brought you so near to 
the angry Adriatic 1” 

We offered each other our hands. I knew 
something about him ; that he had no proper- 
ty, but, on the other hand, great talent as a 
painter ; and yet it had been whispered to me 
that he, in his solitude, \|as the greatest of 
misanthropes. To judge of him by his conver- 
sation, he w'as personified dissipation, and yet 
he was in reality propriety itself. According 
to his account of himself, Don Juan might have 
been his model, and yet, in fact, he combated, 
like the holy saint Antonius, against every 
temptation. A deep heart-sorrow was the 
ground of all this, it was whispered ; but what 1 
— whether his small worldly means or an unhap- 
py love-affair 1 No, nobody knew that rightly. 
He seemed to speak out every thing, not to 
conqeal the smallest thought ; his behaviour 
seemed simple as that of a child, and yet no- 
body seemed rightly at all to understand him. 
All this had interested me, and this meeting 
with him now was very agreeable to me, it dis- 
sipated the clouds from my soul. 

“ Such a blue, billowy plain,” said he, point- 
ing to the sea, “ is not to be found in Rome ! 
The sea is the most beautiful thing on the 
earth ! It is, also, the mother of Venus, and,” 
added he, laughing, “ is the widow of all the 
mighty doges of Venice.” 

“ The Venetians must especially love the 
sea,” said I ; “ regarding it as their grand- 
mother, who carried them and played with 
them for the sake of her beautiful daughter 
Venetia.” 

“ She is no longer beautiful now, she bows 
her head,” replied he. 

‘ But yet,” said I, “ she is still happy under 
the sway of the Emperor Francis.” 

“ It is a prouder thing to be queen upon the 
sea than a Caryatide rpon land,” returned he. 
“The Venetians have nothing to complain 
about, and politics are what I do not under- 
stand ; beauty, on the contrary ; and if you 
are a patron of it, as I do not doubt but you 
are, see, here comes my landlady’s handsome 
daughter, and inquires whether you will take 
part in my frugal dinner !” 

We went into the little house close by the 
shore. The wine was good, and Poggio most 
charming and entertaining. No one could have 
believed that his heart secretly bled. 

We had sat here certainly a couple of hours, 
when my gondolier came to inquire whether I 
would not return, as there was every appear- 
ance of a storm coming on ; the sea was in 
great agitation, and between Lido and Venice 
the waves ran so high, that the light gondola 
might easily be upset. 

“ A storm !” exclaimed Poggio, “ that is 
what I have wished for this many a time. You 
must not let that escape you,” said he to me ; 


108 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


“it will abate again towards evening, and, 
even if it do not, there is convenience here 
for us to pass the night, and’ comfortably to let 
it go over our heads, whilst the dash of the 
w r aves sings us to sleep.” 

“ I can at any time take a gondola here from 
tfm island,” said I to the gondolier, and dis- 
missed him. 

The storm beat violently on the window. We 
went into the open air. The descending sun 
illumined the dark-green agitated sea, the bil- 
lows heaved themselves, crested with white 
foam, and sank down again. Far in the dis- 
tance, where the clouds stood like cliffs torn 
by lightning, we perceived several boats — one 
moment they were in sight, and then gone 
again. The billow's lifted themselves up and 
struck upon the shore, covering us with their 
salt drops. The higher the w r aves flew, the 
louder Poggio laughed, clapped his hands, and 
shouted “Bravo!” to the wild element. His 
example infected me, and my infirm heart felt 
itself better amid this excitement of nature. 

It soon became night. I ordered the hostess 
to bring us in the best wine, and we drank to 
the health of the storm and the sea, and Pog- 
gio sung the same song about love which I had 
heard in the ship. 

“ Health to the Venetian ladies !” said I, and 
he rang his glass against mine to the beautiful 
Roman ones. Had a stranger seen us, he 
would have thought that w r e were two happy 
young friends. 

** The Roman women,” said Poggio, “ pass 
for the handsomest. Tell me, now', honestly, 
your opinion.” 

“ I consider them' as such,” said I. 

“Well!” said Poggio, “but the Queen of 
Beauty lives in Venice ! You should see the 
niece of our Podesta ! I know nothing more 
spiritually beautiful than she ; such as she is 
would Canova have represented the youngest 
of the Graces had he known Maria. I have 
only seen her at mass, and once in the Theatre 
of Saint Moses. There go all the young Vene- 
tians, like me, only they are in love with her 
to the death, I only adore her ; she is too spir- 
itual for my fleshly nature. But one really 
must adore what is heavenly. Is it not so, 
Signore Abbe?” 

I thought on Flaminia, and my momentarily 
kindled merriment was at an end. 

“You are become grave!” said he, “the 
wine is really excellent, and the w r aves sing 
and dance to our bacchanal !” 

“Does the Podesta see much company?” 
inquired I, that I might say something. 

“Not often,” replied Poggio, “ what company 
he has is very select ! The beauty is shy as 
an antelope, fearfully bashful, like no other 
woman that ever I knew ; but,” added he, with 
a jocular smile, “ it may be also a way of ma- 
king herself interesting ! Hqaven knows how 
the whole rightly hangs together! You see, 
our Podesta had two sisters, both of them 
were away from him a great many years ; the 
youngest was married in Greece, and is the 
mother of this beautiful girl, the other sister is 
still unmarried, is an old maid, and she brought 
the beauty here about four years ago — ” 

A sudden darkness interrupted his speech ! 
it was as if the dark night had wrapped us in 


its mantle, and at the same moment the red 
lightning illumined all around. A thunder-clap 
followed, which reminded me of the eruptions 
of Vesuvius. 

Our heads bowed themselves, and involun- 
tarily w r e made the sign of the cross. 

“Jesus Maria!” said the hostess, entering 
our room, “ it is a fear and a horror to think 
of ! Four of our best fishermen are out at sea, 
Madonna keefi her hand over them ! The poor 
Agnese sits with five children — that will be a 
misery !” 

We perceived, through the storm, the sing- 
ing of a psalm. There stood upon the shore 
against which the billow's broke in lofty surf a 
troop of women and children with the holy 
cross : a young woman sat silently among 
them, with her glance riveted oh the sea ; one 
little child lay on her breast, and another, some- 
what older, stood by her side, and laid its head 
on her lap. 

With the last fearful flash, the storm seemed 
to have removed itself to a greater distance ; 
the horizon became brighter, and more clearly 
shone the white foam upon the boiling sea. 

“There they are !” exclaimed the woman, 
and sprang up and pointed to a black speck, 
which became more and more distinct. 

“ Madonna be merciful to them !” said an old 
fisherman, wiio, with his thick brown hood 
drawn over his head, stood w'ith folded hands, 
and gazed on the dark object. At that same 
moment it vanished in a foaming whirlpool. 

The old man had seen aright ; I heard the 
scream of the despairing little group ; it grew 
all the stronger as the sea became calmer, the 
heaven clearer, and the certainty greater. 
The children dropped the holy cross ; they let 
it fall in the sand, and clung, crying, to their 
mothers. The old fisherman, however, raised 
it again, impressed a kiss upon the Redeemer’s 
feet, raised it on high, and named the holy 
name of the Madonna. 

Towards midnight the heavens were clear, 
the sea more tranquil, and the full moon cast 
her long beams over the calm bay between the 
Island of Venice. Poggio entered the gondola 
with me, and* we left the unfortunates, whom 
we could neither assist nor comfort. 

The next evening we met again at my bank- 
er’s, one of the richest in Venice. The com- 
pany was very numerous ; of the ladies I knew 
none, neither had I any interest about them. 

They began to speak in the room of the 
storm the evening before. Poggio took up the 
word, and told of the death of the fishermen, 
of the misfortune of the families, and gave it 
to be very clearly understood how easily a great 
deal of their distress might be relieved ; how a 
small gift from every person present would 
amount to a sum which would be of the great- 
est benefit to the unfortunately bereaved fami- 
lies, but nobody seemed to understand him ; 
they deplored, shrugged their shoulders, and 
then began talking of something else. 

Presently those who were possessed of any 
company-talent, produced it for public benefit. 
Poggio sang a merry Barcarole ; but I seemed 
to see the while, in his polite smile, bitterness 
and coldness towards the dignified circle, which 
would not allow themselves to be guided by his 
noble eloquence. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


w Tou do not sing?” asked the lady of the 
house from me, when he had done. 

“ I will have the honour to improvise before 
you,” said I, as a thought entered my mind. 

“ He is an improvisatore,” I heard whispered 
around me. The eyes of the ladies sparkled ; 
the gentlemen bow T ed. I took a guitar, and 
begged them to give me a subject. 

“ Venice !” cried a lady looking boldly into 
my eyes. 

“ Venice !” repeated the young gentlemen, 
“ because the ladies are handsome !” 

I touched a few chords ; described the pomp 
and glory of Venice in the days of her great-- 
ness, as I had read about it, and as my ima- 
gination had dreamed of its being, and all eyes 
flashed, they fancied that it was so now. I 
sang about the beauty in the balcony in the 
moonlight night, and every lady imagined I 
meant it for her, and clapped her hands in ap- 
plause. Sgrieci* himself could not have had 
more success. 

* “ She is here !” whispered Poggio to me, 
“the niece of the Podesta.” 

But we were* prevented from saying more to 
each other. I was requested yet again to im- 
provise : a deputation of ladies and an old Ex- 
cellenza presented the wishes of the company. 

I was willing, because it was my own wish ; I 
had anticipated it, and only desired that in some 
one of the given themes I might find occasion 
to describe the storm which I had seen : the 
misery of the unfortunates, and by the might 
of song to conquer where eloquence could not 
move. • 

They gave me the Apotheosis of Titian. If 
he had only been a seaman, I would have 
brought him forwards as spokesman on the oc- 
casion, but in his praise I could not bring in 
the idea which I wished to develope. The sub- 
ject was, nevertheless, a rich one ; my man- 
agement of it exceeded expectation : I stood 
like the idol of the company, it was my own 
Apotheosis ! 

“ No happiness can be greater than yours !” 
said the lady of the house ; “ it must be an in- 
finitely delightful feeling, that of possessing a 
talent like yours, that can transport and charm 
all those around you.” 

“ It is a delightful feeling said I. 

“ Describe it in a beautiful poem !” said she, 
beseechingly ; “ it is so easy to you that one 
forgets how unreasonable one is in making so 
many demands upon you.”. 

“ I know one sentiment,” returned I, and 
my design gave me boldness ; “ I know one 
emotion which is not exceeded by any other, 
which makes my heart a poet which awakes 
the same consciousness of happiness, and I 
consider myself to be so great a magician as 
to have the power of exciting it in every heart ; 
but this art has this peculiarity, that it cannot 
be given, it must be purchased.” 

“ We must become acquainted with it,” they 
all exclaimed. 

“ Here, upon this table,” said I : “ I collect 
the sums, — he who gives the most will be most 
deeply initiated therein.” 

“ I will give my gold chain,” said one lady, 


* One of the celebrated improvisator! of our time.— Au- 
thor's Note. 


109 

immediately, laughing, and laid it in sport upon 
the table. 

“ I, all my card-money,” cried another, and 
smiled at my fancy. 

“But it is a serious earnestness!” said I, 
“ the pledges must not be reclaimed.” 

“ We will venture it,” said the many, who 
had already laid down gold, chains, and rings, 
still inwardly having doubts of my power. 

“ But if no emotion whatever takes hold &{ 
me,” said an ofiicer, “ may I not then take back 
two ducats'!” 

“Then, are the wagers forfeited!” cried 
Poggio. I bowed assentingly. 

All laughed, all waited for the result full of 
expectation ; and I began to improvise. A 
holy flame penetrated me, I sang about the 
proud sea, — the bridegroom of Venice ; about 
the sons of the sea, — the bold mariners and fish- 
ermen in their little boats. I described a storm : 
the wife’s and the bride’s longing and anx- 
iety ; described that which I myself had seen ; 
the children who had let fall the holy crucifix, 
and clung to their mothers, and the old fisher- 
man who kissed the feet of the Redeemer. It 
was as if a God had spoken through me — as if 
I were the work-tool of His strong word. 

A deep silence prevailed through the room, 
and many an eye wept. 

I then conducted them into the huts of pov- 
erty, and took help and life through our little 
gift, and I sang how much more blessed it was 
to give than to receive ; sang of the delight 
which filled every heart, that had contributed 
its mite ; it was a feeling which nothing could 
outweigh ; it was the divine voice in every 
breast, which made them holier, and loftier, 
and devoted them to the poet ! And whilst I 
spoke, my voice increased in strength and ful- 
ness. 

I had won every thing ; a tumultuous bravo 
saluted me ; and at the conclusion of my song 
I handed the rich gifts to Poggio, that thereby 
he might take help to the unfortunates. 

A young lady sank at my feet — a more 
beautiful triumph had my talent never obtained 
for me — seized my hand, and, with tears in her 
beautiful, dark eyes, looked gratefully into my 
soul. This glance singularly agitated me ; it 
was an expression of beauty which I seemed 
to have once beheld in a dream. 

“The Mother of God reward you!” stam- 
mered she, whilst the blood crimsoned her 
cheek. She concealed her countenance, and 
withdrew from me, as if in horror at what she 
had done ; and who could have been so cruel 
as to have made a jest at the pure emotions 
of innocence ! Every one pressed around me ; 
they were inexhaustible in my praise. All 
talked about the unfortunates of Lido ; and I 
stood there as their benefactor. 

“ It is more blessed to give than to receive !” 
This evening had taught me the truth of this. 
Poggio pressed me in his arms. 

“Excellent man,” said he, “I esteem and 
honour you ! Beauty brings to you her hom- 
age ; she, who with a look can make thousands 
happy, bows herself before you in the dust !” 

“Who was she!” inquired I, with a con- 
strained voice. 

“ The most beautiful in Venice !” replied he, 
“ The niece of the Podesta !” 


no 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


That remarkable glance, that shape of beau- 
ty, stood livingly impressed in my soul ; inex- 
plicable remembrances awoke, and I also ex- 
claimed, “ She was beautiful !” 

“You do not recognise me, then, signore 1” 
said an old lady, who came up to me. “ It 
is a many years since I had the honour of ma- 
king your acquaintance 1” She smiled, offered 
me her hand, and thanked me. for my improv- 
isation. 

I bowed politely ; her features seemed famil- 
iar to me, but when and where I had seen her 
was not clear to me. I was obliged to say so. 

“ Yes, that is natural !” said she ; “ we have 
only seen each other one single time. That 
was in Naples. My brother was a physician. 
You visited him with a gentleman of the Bor- 
ghese family.” 

“ I remember it !” I exclaimed. “ Yes, now 
I recognise you ! Least of all did I expect 
Brat we should meet again here in Venice !” 

“ My brother,” said she, “ for whom I kept 
house, died about four years ago. Now, I live 
with my elder brother. My servant shall take 
you our card. My niece is a child — a strange 
child ; she will go away — away instantly. I 
must attend her !” 

The old lady again gave me her hand, and 
left the room. 

“Lucky fellow!” said Poggio, “that was 
the Podesta’s sister! You know her, have 
had an invitation from her. Half of Venice 
will envy you. Button your coat well about 
your heart when you go there, that you be not 
wounded like the rest of us, who approach in 
the slightest degree towards the enemy’s -bat- 
tery.” 

The beauty was gone. At the moment of 
emotion, transported by her feelings, she had 
fallen at my feet ; but at that moment had 
awoke her great bashfulness, and maidenly 
shame, and anxiety, and horror, at her own 
deed, had. driven her away from the great cir- 
cle, where she had drawn attention to herself ; 
and yet nothing was said but in her praise and 
admiration ! They united her praises with 
mine ! The queen of beauty had enchanted 
every one. Her heart, they said, was as noble 
as her form. 

The consciousness of having done a good 
work threw a ray of light into my soul ; I felt 
a noble pride ; felt my own happiness in being 
possessed of the gift of song. All the praise 
and love which surrounded me melted away 
all bitterness from my soul ; it seemed to me 
as if my spiritual strength had arisen purer 
and mightier from its swoon. I thought of 
Flaminia, and thought of her without pain ; 
she would, indeed, have pressed my hand as a 
sister. Her words, that the poet ought only 
to sing of that which was holy and for the 
glorifying of God, cast a clear light into my 
soul. I felt again strength and courage, a 
mild tranquillity diffused itself over my whole 
being ; and, for the first time after many, many 
months, I again felt happiness. It was a de- 
lightlul evening. 

Poggio rung his glass against mine ; we 
concluded a friendship between us, and sealed 
it with a brotherly thou. 

It was late when I returned home, but I felt . 


no want of sleep ; the moon shone so brightly 
upon the water in the canal, the atmosphere 
was so high and blue. With the pious faith of 
a child, I folded my hands and prayed, “ Fa 
ther, forgive me. my sins ! Give me strength to 
become a good and noble man, and thus may 
I still dare to remember Flaminia, to thirni 
upon my sister ; strengthen, also, her soul, lei 
her never imagine of my suffering ! Be good 
to us, and merciful, Eternal God !” 

And now my heart was wondrously light ; 
the empty canals of Venice and the old palaces 
seemed to me beautiful — a sleeping fairy world. 

The next morning I was as cheerful as ever ; 
a noble pride had awoke in my breast. I was 
happy because of my spiritual gifts, and thank- 
ful to God. I took a gondola, to go and make 
my visit at the house of the Podesta, whose 
sister I knew ; to speak candidly, I had also a 
desire to see the young lady who had paid such 
living homage to me, and who passed for the 
queen of beauty. 

“ Palazzo d’Othello !” said the gondolier, and 
led me through the great canal to an old build- 
ing, relating to me the whole of the Moor of 
Venice, who killed his beautiful wife Desde- 
mona, who had lived there ; and that all the 
English went to visit this house, as if it were 
St. Mark’s Church, or the arsenal. 

They all received me as if I had been a be- 
loved relation. Rosa, the Podesta’s old sister, 
talked of her dear deceased brother ; of lively, 
merry Naples, which she had not now seen for 
these four years. 

“Yes,” said she, “Maria longs for it, also ; 
and we will set off when they least think of it. 
I must see Vesuvius and the beautiful Capri 
yet once more before I die !” 

Maria entered and offered me her hand, with 
a sisterly, and yet singularly bashful manner. 
She was beautiful, indeed, I thought more beau- 
tiful than when last evening she had bent her- 
self before me. Poggio was right, so must the 
youngest of the Graces appear ; no ♦female 
form could have been more exquisitely formed 
— Lara, perhaps 1 Yes, Lara, the blind girl in 
her poor garments, with the little bouquet of 
violets in her hair, was as beautiful as Maria in 
her splendid dress. Her closed eyes had ap- 
pealed to my heart more touchingly than the 
singularly dark glance of fire in Maria’s eyes ; 
every feature, however, had a pensive expres- 
sion like Lara’s ; but then, in the open dark eye, 
was peace and joy, which Lara had never 
known. There was, nevertheless, so much re- 
semblance as to bring the blind girl to my mind, 
whom she never had seen, nay, even that 
strange reverential feeling, as if to some su- 
perior being, again into my heart. 

My powers of mind exhibited greater flexi- 
bility, my eloquence became richer. I felt that 
I pleased every one of them ; and Maria seem- 
ed to bestow upon my talents as much admira- 
tion as her beauty w r on from me. 

I looked upon her as a lover looks upon a 
beautiful female figure, the perfect image of his 
beloved. In Maria, I found all Lara’s beauty 
almost as in a mirror, and Flaminia's entire 
sisterly spirit ; one could not but have confi- 
dence in her. It was to me as if we had known 
one another for a long time. 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 
CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE SINGER. 

A great event in my life lies so near to me 
ftere that it almost dislodges all others from my 
mind, as the lofty pine-tree of the wood draws 
away the eye from the low under-growth ; I 
therefore only passingly describe that which 
lies in the middle ground. 

I was often at the house of the Podesta — I 
was, they said, its enlivening genius. Rosa 
talked to me about her beloved Naples, and I 
read aloud to her and her niece the “ Divina 
Commedia” Alfieri and Miolim, and I was cap- 
tivated with Maria’s mind and feeling as much 
as with the works of the poets themselves. 
Out of this house Poggio was my dearest as- 
sociate ; they knew' it, and he, too, was invited 
by the Podesta. He thanked me for this, and 
declared that it was my merits and not his. and 
our friendship, which had introduced him there, 
for w 7 hieh he w r as the envy of the whole youth 
of Venice. 

Every w'here was my talent as improvisatore 
admired, nay, it w r as so highly esteemed that 
no circle would allow me to escape before I had 
gratified their wish by giving them a proof of 
my power. The first artists extended to me 
their hands as brothers, and encouraged me to 
come forward in public. And I half did so be- 
fore the members of the Academia del Arte one 
evening, by improvising* on Dandola’s proces- 
sion to' Constantinople, and upon the bronze 
horses on the church of St. Mark, for which I 
was honoured with a diploma, and received into 
their Society. 

Rut a much greater pleasure awaited me in 
the house of the Podesta. One day Maria pre- 
sented to me a little casket containing a beau- 
tiful necklace of lovely, bright-coloured mussel- 
shells, exceedingly small, delicate, and lovely, 
strung upon a silken thread ; it was a present 
from the unfortunates of Lido, whose benefac- 
tor I was called. 

“ It is very beautiful,” said Maria. 

“That you must preserve for your bride,” 
said Rosa ; “ it is a lovely gift for her, and with 
that intention has it been given.” 

“ My bride,” repeated I, gravely, “ I have not 
one — really have not one.” 

“But she will come,” said Rosa ; “you will 
have a bride, and certainly the most beautiful.” 

“ Never !” repeated I, and looked on the 
ground, in the deep sense of how much I had 
lost. 

Maria also became silent with my dejection ; 
she had pleased herself so much in the idea of 
astonishing me by the gift, and had received it 
from Poggio, to whom it had been given, for 
that purpose ; and I now stood embarrassed, 
concealing my embarrassment so badly, and 
holding the necklace in my hand. I would so 
gladly have given it to Maria, but Rosa’s words 
staggered my determination. Maria certainly 
divined my thoughts, for, as I fixed my eye upon 
her, a deep crimson flushed her countenance. 

“ You come very seldom to us,” said ray rich 
banker’s wife one day as I paid her a visit — 
“ very seldom come here, but to the Podesta’s ! 
yes, that is more amusing ! Maria is, indeed, 
the first beauty in Venice, and you are the first 


111 

improvisatore. It will thus be a very good 
match ; the girl will have a magnificent estate 
in Calabria — it is her own heritage, or has been 
bought for that. Be bold, and it will succeed. 
You will be the envy of all Venice.” 

“ How can you think,” returned I, “ that such 
a conceited thought should enter my mind 'l 1 
am as far from being a lover of Maria’s as any 
body else can* be. Her beauty charms m^, as 
all beauty does, but that is not love ; and that 
she has fortune does not operate with me.” 

“Ah, well, well ! we shall see for all that !” 
said the lady ; “lovfe gets on best in life when 
it stands well in the kitchen — when there is 
enough to fill the pot. It is out of this that peo- 
ple must live !” 

And with this she laughed and gave me her 
hand. 

It provoked me that people should think I 
should talk in this way. I determined to go 
less frequently to the house of the Podesta, 
spite of their all being so dear to me. I had 
thought of spending this evening with them, 
but I now altered my determination. My blood 
was in agitation. Nay, thought I, wherefore 
vex myself ! I will be cheerful. Life is beau- 
tiful if people will -only let it be so ; free I am, 
and nobody shall influence me ! Have I not 
strength and will of my own'? 

In the dusk of the evening I took a ramble 
alone through the narrow streets, where the 
houses met one another, where, therefore, the 
little rooms were brightly lighted up, and the 
people thronged together. The lights shone in 
long rays upon the Great Canal, the gondolas 
flew rapidly along under the single lofty arch 
which sustained the bridge. I heard the voice 
singing ; it was that ballad about kissing and 
love, and, like the serpent around the tree of 
knowledge, I knew the beautiful face of Sin. 

I went onward through the narrow streets 
and came to a house more lighted up than any 
of the others, into which a crowd of people 
were going. It was one of the minor theatres 
of Venice, Saint Lucas’, I believe, it was called. 
A little company gave the same opera there 
twice in the day, as in the Theatro Fenize in 
Naples. The first representation of the piece 
begins about four o’clock in the afternoon and 
ends at six, and the second begins at eight. 
The price was very low, but nobody must ex- 
pect to see any thing extraordinary ; yet the 
desire w r hich the lower classes here have to 
hear music, and the curiosity of strangers, 
cause them often to be very good houses, and 
that even twice in the evening. 

I now read in the play-bill “ Donna Caritca , 
regina de Spagna, the music by Marcadant’e — ” 

“ I can come out again if I get weary of it,” 
said I to myself ; “ and, at all events, I can go 
in and look at the pretty women.” I was in 
the humour for the thing, and resolved to enjoy 
myself. 

1 went in, received a dirty little ticket, and 
was conducted to a box near the stage. There 
were two rows of boxes, one above the other; 
the places for the spectators were right spa- 
cious, but the stage itself seemed to me like a 
tray, several people could not have turned them- 
selves round upon it, and yet there was going 
to be exhibited an equestrian opera, with a tour- 
nament and a procession. The boxes were in- 


# 


112 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


ternally dirty and defaced, the ceiling seemed 
to press the whole together. A man in his 
shirt-sleeves came forward to light the lamps ; 
the people talked aloud in the pit ; the musi- 
cians came into the orchestra — they could only 
raise a quartett. 

Every thing showed what the whole might 
be expected to be, yet still I resolved to wait 
out the first act. I noticed the ladies around 
me — none of them pleased me. A young man 
now entered the box next to mine ; I had met 
him in company. He smiled and*offered me 
his hand, saying, 

“ Who would have thought of meeting you 
here! — But,” whispered he, “one can often 
make very pleasant acquaintance here : in the 
pale moonlight people easily get acquainted.” 

He kept talking on and was hissed, because 
the overture had begun ; it sounded very de- 
plorable, and the curtain rolled up. The whole 
corps consisted of two ladies and three gentle- 
men, who looked as if they had been fetched in 
from field labour, and bedizened in knightly ap- 
parel. 

“ Yes,” said my neighbour, “ the solo parts 
are often not badly cast. Here is a comic act- 
or who might figure in any first-rate theatre. 
Ah, thou good God !” exclaimed he to himself, 
as the queen of the piece entered with two la- 
dies ;“ are we to have her to-night 1 Yes, 
then, I w r ould not give a half-zwanziger for the 
whole thing ; Jeanette was much better !” 

It was a slight, ordinary figure, with a thin, 
sharp countenance, and deeply-sunken dark 
eyes, who now came forward. Her miserable 
dress hung loosely about her; it was poverty 
which came forward as the queen ; and yet it 
was with a grace which amazed me, and which 
accorded so little with the rest — a grace which 
would excellently have become a young and 
beautiful girl. She advanced towards the lamps 
— my heart beat violently, I scarcely dared to 
inquire her name ; I believed that my eyes de- 
ceived me. 

“What is she called'!” at length I asked. 

“ Annunciata,” replied my neighbour ; “ sing 
she cannot, and that one may see by that little 
skeleton !” 

Every word fell upon my heart like corrosive 
poison ; I sat as if nailed fast ; my eyes were 
fixed immovably upon her. 

She sang ; no, it was not Annunciata’s voice, 
it sounded feeble, inharmonious, and uncertain. 

“ There are eertainly traces of a good school,” 
said my neighbour ; “ but there is not power 
for it.” 

“ She does not resemble,” said I, tremulous- 
ly, “ a namesake of hers, Annunciata, a young 
Spaniard, who once made a great figure in Na- 
ples and Rome 1” 

“ Ah, yes,” answered he ; “ it is she herself! 
seven or eight years ago she sat on the high 
horse. Then she was young, and had a voice 
like a Malibran ; but now all the gilding is 
gone ; that is, in reality, the lot of all such tal- 
ents ! For a few years they shine in their me- 
ridian glory, and, dazzled by admiration, they 
never think that they may decline, and thus ra- 
tionally retire whilst glory is beaming arounc 
them. The public first find out the change, anc. 
that is the melancholy part of it; and then, 
commonly, these good ladies live too expen- 


sively, and all their gains are squandered, aod 
then it goes down-hill at a gallop! You have 
then seen her in Rome, have you!” asked he. 

“ Yes,” replied I, “several times.” 

“ It must be a horrible change ! most to be 
deplored, however, for her,” said he; “she is 
said to have lost her voice in a long, severe 
sickness, which must be some four or five 
years since ; but with that the public has no- 
thing to do. Will you not clap for old acquaint- 
ance sake ! I will help ; it will please the old 
lady !” 

He clapped loudly ; some in the parterre fol- 
lowed his example, but then succeeded a loud 
hissing, amid which the queen proudly went off 
the scene. It was Annunciata ! 

“ Fuimus Troes /” whispered my neighbour. 
Now came forward the heroine of the piece ; 
she was a very pretty young girl, of a luxuriant 
form, and with a burning glance ; she was Re- 
ceived with acclamations and the clapping of 
bands. All the old recollections rushed into 
my soul ; the transports of the Roman people 
and their jubilations over Annunciata ; her tri- 
umphal procession, and my strong love ! Ber- 
nardo, then, had also forsaken her : or, had she 
not loved him-! I saw really how she bent her 
head down to him and pressed her lips upon 
his brow. He had forsaken her — forsaken her ; 
then she became ill, and her beauty had van- 
ished ; it was that alone which he had loved ! 

She again came forward in another scene ; 
how suffering* she looked, and how old ! It 
w r as a painted corpse which terrified me. I 
was embittered against Bernardo, who could 
forsake her for the loss of her beauty, and yet 
it was that which had wounded me so deeply ; 
the beauty of Annunciata’s soul must have been 
the same as before. 

“Are you not well!” inquired the stranger 
from me, for I looked deadly pale. 

“ It is here so oppressively warm,” said I, ri- 
sing ; left the box, and went out into the fresh 
air. I hastened through the narrow streets ; a 
thousand emotions agitated my breast ; I knew 
not where to go. I stood again outside the the- 
atre, where a fellow was just taking down the 
placard to put up the one for the next day. 

“Where does Annunciata live!” whispered 
I in his ear ; he turned himself round, looked at 
me, and repeated, “ Annunciata ! Signore 
means, no doubt, Aurelia! she who acted the 
part of the man within ! I will shew you her 
house ; but she is not yet at liberty.” 

“No, no,” replied I, “Annunciata; she who 
sang the part of the queen.” 

The fellow measured me with his eye. 

“The little thin woman!” asked he; “yes, 
she, I fancy, is not accustomed to visitors, but 
there may be good reasons. I will shew the 
gentleman the house ; you will give me some- 
thing for my trouble ! but you cannot see her 
yet for an hour ; the opera will detain her as 
long as that.” 

“Wait, then, here for me,” said I; entered 
a gondola, and bade the man row me about 
whither he would. My soul was inwardly 
troubled ; I must yet once more see Annuncia- 
ta — talk to her — she was unhappy ! but what 
could I do for her ! Anguish and sorrow drove 
me on. 

An hour was scarcely gone when the gondola 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


113 


again lay with me before the theatre ; where I 
found the fellow waiting for me. 

He led me through narrow, dirty lanes, to an 
old desolate house, in the uppermost garret of 
which a light was burning, he pointed up. 

“Does she live there 1” I exclaimed. 

“ I will lead Excellent in,” said he, and pull- 
ed at the bell-cord. 

“Who is there 1” inquired a female voice. 

“ Marco Sugano !” replied he, and the door 
opened. 

It was dark night within ; the little lamp be- 
fore the image of the Madonna was gone out, 
the glimmering wick alone shone like a point of 
blood ; I kept close to him. A door far above 
was opened, and we saw a ray of light shine 
down towards us. 

“ Now she comes herself,” said the man. 

I slipped a few pieces of money into his hand ; 
lie thanked me a thousand times, and hastened 
down, whilst I ascended the last steps. 

“Are there any new changes for to-morrow, 
Marco Lugano 1” I heard the voice inquire, it 
was Annunciata ; she stood at the door ; a little 
silken net was bound round her hair, and a large 
wrapping dress was thrown loosely about her. 

“ Do not fall, Marco,” said she, and went be- 
fore into the room, whilst I followed after her. 

“ Who are you 1 What do you want here V ’ 
exclaimed she, terrified, as she saw me enter. 

“Jesus Maria!” cried she, and pressed her 
hands before her face. 

“ A friend !” stammered I ; “an old acquaint- 
ance, to whom you once occasioned much joy, 
much happiness, seeks you out, and ventures 
to offer you his hand !” 

She took her hands from her face, pale as 
dpath, and stood like a corpse ; and the dark, 
intellectual eyes glowing wildly. Older An- 
nunciata had become, and bore the marks of 
suffering ; but there were still remains of that 
wonderful beauty, that same soul-beaming but 
melancholy look. 

“ Antonio !” said she, and I saw a tear in her 
eye ; “ is it thus we meet 1 Leave me ! our 
paths lie so wide apart — yours upwards to hap- 
piness, mine down — to happiness also,” sighed 
she deeply. 

“ Drive me not from you !” exclaimed I ; “ as 
a friend — a brother I am come ; my heart im- 
pelled me to it ! You are unhappy, you to whom 
thousands acclaimed gladness, who made thou- 
sands happy !” 

“ The wheel of fortune turns round,” said she. 
“ Fortune follows youth and beauty, and the 
world harnesses itself to their triumphal car ; 
intellect and heart are the worst dower of na- 
ture ; they are forgotten for youth and beauty, 
and the world is always right !” 

“You have been ill, Annunciata!” said I; 
and my lips trembled. 

“ 111 — very ill, for almost a year ; but it was 
not the death of me,” said she, with a bitter 
smile; “youth died, however ; my voice died, 
and the public became dumb at the sight of 
these two corpses in one body ! The physician 
said that they were only apparently dead, and 
the body believed so. But the body required 
clothing and food, and for two long years gave 
all its wealth to purchase these, then it must 
paint itself, and come forward as if the dead 
were still living, but it came forward as a ghost, 

P- 


and that people might not be frightened at it, it 
shewed itself again in a little theatre where 
few lamps were burning, and it was half dark. 
But, even there they observed that youth and 
voice were dead, were buried corpses. Annun r 
ciata is dead, there hangs her living image’” 
and she pointed to the wall. 

In that miserable chamber hung a picture, a 
half-length picture, in a rich gilded frame, which 
made a strange contrast to the other poverty 
around. It was the picture of Annunciata, 
painted as Dido. It was her image as it stood 
in my soul ; the intellectually beautiful counte- 
nance, with pride on the brow. I looked round 
upon the actual Annunciata ; she held her hands 
before her face and wept. 

“ Leave me, — forget my existence, as the 
world has forgotten it !” besought she, and mo- 
tioned with her hands. 

“ I cannot,” said I — “ cannot thus leave you ! 
Madonna is good and merciftil ; Madonna will 
help us all !” 

“ Antonio,” said she, solemnly, “ can you 
make a jest of me in my misfortune 1 No, that 
you cannot, like all the rest of the world. But 
I do not comprehend you. When all the world 
acclaimed my praise, and lavished flattery and 
adoration upon me, you forsook me, forsook 
me so entirely ; and now, when my glory which 
had captivated the world is gone, when every 
body regards me as a foreign, indifferent ob- 
ject, you come to me, seek me out !” 

“You yourself drove me from you!” ex- 
claimed I ; “ drove me out into the world ! My 
fate, my circumstances,” added I, in a milder 
tone, “ drove me out into the world !” 

She became silent ; but her eye was riveted 
with a strangely searching expression upon me. 
She seemed as if she wished to. speak ; the lips 
moved, but she spoke not. A deep sigh as- 
cended from her breast ; she cast her eyes up- 
wards, and again sunk them to the floor. Her 
hand w r as passed over her forehead ; it was as 
if a thought went through her soul, known only 
to God and herself. 

“ I have seen you again !” exclaimed she at 
length ; “ seen you yet once more in this world ! 
I feel that you are a good, a noble man. May 
you be happier than I have been ! The swan 
has sung its last ! Beauty has gone out of 
flower ! I am quite alone in this world ! 01 

the happy Annunciata there remains only the 
picture on the wall ! I have now one prayei,” 
said she, “ one prayer, which you will not re- 
fuse me ! Annunciata, who once delighted you, 
beseeches you to grant it !” 

“ All, all, I promise !” exclaimed I, and press- 
ed her hand to my lips. 

“ Regard it as a dream,” said she, “ that you 
have seen me this evening ! If we meet again 
in the world, we do not know each other ! Now 
we part !” She offered me, with these words, 
her hand, and added, “ In a better world we 
shall meet again ! Here our paths separate ! 
Farewell, Antonio, farewell !” 

I sank down, overcome for sorrow, before 
her. I knew nothing more ; she directed me 
like a child, and I wept like one. 

“ I come ! I come again !”«said I, and left 
her. 

“ Farewell !” I heard her say ; but I saw her 
no more. 


114 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


All was dark below and in the street. 

“ God, how miserable may Thy creatures 
be !” exclaimed I in my anguish, and wept. 
No sleep visited my eyes : it was a night of 
sorrow.. 

Amid a thousand plans which I devised, and 
then again rejected, I went to her house on the 
day but one following. I felt my poverty ; I 
was only a poor lad, that had been taken from 
the Campagna. My greater freedom of mind 
had exactly laid me in the fetters of depend- 
ence ; but my talents seemed really to open to 
me a brilliant path. Could it be a more brill- 
iant one than Annunciata’s ; and how was this 
ended 1 The rushing river which had gleamed 
forth in cascades and amid rainbow's had ended 
in the Pontine Mar&h of misery. 

Yet once more I felt impelled to see Annun- 
ciata, and to talk with her. It w'as the second 
day after our meeting that I again mounted up 
the narrow', dark stairs. The door was closed ; 
I knocked on it, and an old woman opened a 
side-door, and asked if I wished to see the 
room, which w r as vacant “ But it is quite too 
little for you,” said she. 

“ But the singer 1” inquired I. 

“ She has flitted,” answered the old woman ; 
“ flitted all away yesterday morning. Has set 
off a journey, I fancy ; it was done in a mighty 
hurry.” 

“Do not you know r where she is gene?” I 
asked.’? 

“ No,” returned she ; “ she did not say a 
word about that. But they are gone to Padua, 
or Trieste, or Ferrara, or some such place, as, 
Indeed, there are so many.” And with this she 
opened the door, that I might see the empty 
room. 

I went to the theatre. The company had 
yesterday given their last representation ; it 
was now closed. 

She was gone, the unfortunate Annunciata ! 
A bitter feeling took possession of my mind. 
Bernardo, thought I, is, after all, the cause of 
her misfortune, of the whole direction which 
my life has taken. Had it not been for him 
she would have loved me ; and her lov© would 
have given to my mind a great strength and de- 
velopment. Had I at once followed her, and 
c®me forward as improvisatore, my triumph, 
perhaps, would have united itself to hers ; all 
might have been so different then ! Care would 
not then have furrowed her brow ! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

POGGIO ANNUNCIATA MARIA 

Poggio visited me, and inquired the reason 
of my depression of mind ; but I could not tell 
him the cause ; I could tell it to no one. 

“ Thou lookest really,” said he, “ as if the 
bad sirocco blew upon thee ! Is it from the 
heart that this hot air comes ? The little bird 
within there may be burned ; and, as it is no 
phcenix, it may not be benefited thereby. It 
must now and then have a flight out, pick the 
red berries in the field, and the fine roses in 
the balcony, to get itself right. My little bird 
does so, and finds itself all the better for it ; 
has excellent spirits, sings merrily into my 


blood and my whole being. And it is that 
which gives me the good-humour that I have '. 
Thou must do the same also, and shalt do so ! 
A poet must have a sound, healthy bird in his 
breast — a bird which knows both roses and 
berries, the sour and the sweet, the cloudy 
heavens and the clear ether !” 

“ That is a beautiful idea about a poet,” 
said I. 

“ Christ became a man like the rest of us,” 
said he, “ and descended even down into hell 
to the damned ! The divine must unite itself 
to the earthly, and there will be produced 

therefrom a mighty result of But it is 

really a magnificent lecture which I am begin- 
ning. I ought, sure enough, to give one ; I 
have promised to do so ; but I fancy it was on 
another subject. What is the meaning of it, 
when a gentleman all at once forsakes his 
friends 1 for three whole days has never been 
to the Podesta’s house 1 That is abominable, 
very abominable of him. The family is also 
very angry. This very day thou must go there, 
and, kneeling, like another Frederick Barbaros- 
sa, hold the stirrup. Not to have been for three 
days at the Podesta’s house ! I heard that from 
Signora Rosa. What hast thou been doing with 
thyself.” 

“ I have not felt well ; have not been out.” 

“No, dear friend,” interrupted he, “one 
knows better than thaj ! The evening before 
last thou wentest to the Opera La Regina di 
Spagna, in which the little Aurelia appears as 
a knight — that is, a little Orlando Furioso ! 
But the conquest need not bring gray hairs to 
any body ; it cannot be so difficult. How- 
ever, be that as it may, thou goest with me 
to dine at the Podesta’s. There are we invi- 
ted, and I have given my hand to take thee 
with me.” 

“ Poggio,” said I, gravely, “ I will tell thee 
the reasons why I have not been there ; why I 
shall not go there so frequently.” 

I then told him what the banker’s wife had 
whispered to me : how Venice talked about 
its being my design to obtain the beautiful 
Maria, who had a fortune and an estate in Ca- 
labria. 

“ Nay,” cried Poggio, “ I would be very glad 
indeed if they would say that of me ; and so 
thou wilt not go for that reason ? Yes, truly, 
people do say so, and I believe it myself, bo- 
cause it is so natural. But whether we are 
right or wrong, that is no reason why thou 
shouldest be uncivil to the family. Maria is 
handsome, very handsome, has understanding 
and feeling,* and thou lovest her too, that I 
have seen all along plainly enough.” 

“ No, no !” exclaimed I, “my thoughts are a 
very long way from love ! Maria resembles a 
blind chfld whom I once saw, a child which 
wonderfully attracted me, as a child only 
could. That resemblance has often agitated 
me in Maria, and has riveted my eye upon 
her.” 

“Maria also was once blind!” said Poggio, 
in a somewhat serious tone ; “ she was blind 
when she came from Greece ; her uncle, the 
physician in Naples, performed an operation on 
her eyes which restored her sight.” 

“ My blind child was not Maria,” said I. 

“ Thy blind child,” repeated Poggio, mei rily ; 


THE IMPROVISATORS. 


115 


it must be a very wonderful person, however, 
that blind child of thine, which could set thee 
a- staring at Maria, and finding out a likeness. 
Yos, that is only speaking figuratively ; it is 
the little blind Love with whom, once upon a 
time, thou madest acquaintance, and she has 
made thee look at Maria. Now confess it thy- 
self; before we ourselves are aware of it, will 
the nuptials be announced, and you drive off 
from Venice.” 

“ No, Poggio,” I exclaimed, “ you affront 
me by talking in this way ; I shall never mar- 
ry. My love’s dream is over. I never think 
of such a thing — never can. By the eternal 
heavens and all the saints, I neither will nor 
can.” 

“ Silence ! silence !” cried Poggio, interrupt- 
ing me, “let’s have no oath about it. I will 
believe thee, and will contradict every body 
that says thou art in love with Maria, and that 
you are going to be married. But don’t go, 
and swear that you never will marry ; perhaps 
the bridal is nearer than you imagine : even 
within this very year it is quite possible.” 

“ Thine, perhaps,” replied I, “ but mine 
never !” 

“ Nay ; so thou thinkest, then, that I can 
get married 1” exclaimed Poggio ; “no, dear 
•friend, I have no means of keeping a wife ; 
the pleasure would be much too expensive for 
me.” 

“ Thy marriage will take place before mine,” 
replied I ; “ perhaps even the handsome Ma- 
ria may be thine, and whilst Venice is saying 
it is to me that she will give her hand, it is to 
thee.” 

“ That would be badly done,” replied he, and 
laughed ; “ no, I have given her a far better 
husband than myself. Shall we lay a wager,” 
continued he, “ that thou wilt be married, either 
to Maria or some other lady ; that thou wilt be 
a husband, and I an old bachelor 1 Two bottles 
of champagne we will bet, which we will drink 
on thy wedding-day.” 

“ I dare do that,” said I, and smiled. 

I was obliged to go with him to the Podes- 
ta’s. Signora Rosa scolded me, and so did the 
Podesta. Maria was silent ; my eye rested 
upon her : Venice said, actually, that she was 
my bride ! Rosa and I touched glasses. 

“ No lady may -drink the health of the im- 
provisatore,” said Poggio ; “ he has sjyorn 
eternal hatred against the fair sex ; he never 
will be married !” 

“ Eternal hatred !” returned I ; “ and what 
if I do not marry, cannot I honour and value 
still that which is beautiful in woman, that which 
more than any thing else elevates and softens 
every relation of life 1” 

“ Not be married !” cried the Podesta ; “ that 
were the most miserable thought which your 
genius ever gave birth to ; nor either is it hand- 
some behaviour in a friend,” said he, jestingly, 
turning to Poggio, “ to reveal it.” 

“ Only to make him ashamed of it !” return- 
ed Poggio ; “he might otherwise so easily get 
enamoured of this his only bad thought, and 
because it is so remarkably brilliant, might mis- 
take it for an original one, and regularly attach 
himself to it !” 

They jested with me, made fun of me : I could 
fiot ae other cheerful. Exquisite dishes 


and glorious wine were set before me. I thought 
upon Annunciata’s poverty, and that, perhaps, 
she was now famishing. 

“You promised to send us Silvio Pellico’s 
works,” said Rosa, when we separated. “ Do 
not forget it, and come, like a good creature, 
every day to us ; you have accustomed us to 
it, and nobody in Venice can be more grateful 
than we are.” 

I went — I went right often ; for I felt how 
much they loved me. 

About a month had now passed since my last 
conversation with Poggio, and I had not been 
able to speak about Annunciata ; I was, there- 
fore, obliged to trust to chance, which often 
knits up the broken thread. 

One evening as I was at the Podesta’s, Ma- 
ria seemed to be singularly thoughtful, a vivid 
suffering seemed impressed upon her whole be- 
ing. I had been reading to her and her aunt, 
and even during this her mind seemed abstract- 
ed. Rosa left the room ; never had I until 
now been alone with Maria ; a strange, inex- 
plicable presentiment, as if of approaching 
evil, filled my breast. I endeavoured to begin 
a conversation about Silvio Pellico, about the 
influence of political life upon the poetical 
mind. 

“ Signore Abbe,” said she, without appearing 
to have heard a word of my remarks, for her 
whole thoughts seemed to have been directed 
to one only subject. “ Antonio,” continued she 
with a tremulous voice, whilst the blood man- 
tled in her cheeks, “ I must speak with you. A 
dying person has made me give her my hand 
that I would do so.” 

She paused, and I stood silent, strangely agi- 
tated by her words. 

“We are actually not so very much of stran- 
gers to each other,” said she, “and -yet this 
moment is very terrible to me ;” and as she 
spoke, she became pale as death. 

“ God in heaven !” exclaimed I, “ what has 
happened 1” 

“ God’s wonderful guidance,” said she, “ has 
drawn me into your life’s circumstances, has 
made me participate in a secret, in a connex- 
ion which no stranger ought to know ; but my 
lips are silent ; what I have promised to the 
dead I have not told, not even to my aunt.” 

With this she drew forth a little packet, and 
giving it to me, continued, “This is destined 
for you, it will tell you every thing ; I have 
promised to deliver it into your hands ; I have 
had it in my possession for two whole days : I 
knew not how I should be able to fulfil my 
promise, — I have now done it. Be silent, as I 
shall be.” 

“From whom does it cornel” inquired I; 
■“ may I not know that 1” 

“ Eternal God !” said she, and left the room. 

I hastened home, and opened the little pack- 
et. It contained many loose papers ; the first 
I saw was in my own hand- writing, a little 
verse written with pencil ; but underneath it 
were marked in ink three black crosses, as 
if they were the writing on a grave. It was 
the poem which I had thrown to Annunciata’s 
feet the first time I saw her. 

“ Annunciata !” sighed I deeply, “ Eternal 
Mother of God ! it comes then from her !” 

Among the papers lay a sealed note, upon 


116 


THE 1MPR0VISAT0RE. 


which was inscribed, “To Antonio.” I tore it 
open ; yes, it was from her. Half of it I saw 
was written during the night of the evening 
when I had seen her ; the latter part appeared 
fresher ; it was extremely faint, and written 
with a trembling hand. I read : — 

“ I have seen thee, Antonio ! seen thee once 
more. It was my only wish, and I dreaded it 
for a moment, even as one dreads death, which, 
however, brings happiness. It is only an hour 
since I saw thee. When thou readost this it 
may be months — not longer. It is said that 
those who see themselves will shortly die. 
Thou art the half of my soul — thou wast my 
thought— thee have I seen ! Thou hast seen 
me in my happiness, in my misery ! Thou 
wast the only one who now would know the 
poor forsaken Annunciata ! But I, also, de- 
served it. 

“ I dare now speak thus to thee because 
when thou readest this I shall be no more. I 
loved thee — loved thee from the days of my 
prosperity to my last moment. Madonna willed 
not that we should be united in this world, and 
she divided us. 

“ I knew thy love for me before that unfor- 
tunate evening when the shot struck Bernardo, 
on which thou declared it. My pain at the-mis- 
fortune which separated us, the great grief 
which crushed my heart, bound my tongue. I 
concealed my face on the body of him whom I 
believed to be dead, and thou wast gone — I 
saw thee no more ! 

“ Bernardo was not mortally wounded, and I 
left him not before this was ascertained of a 
truth. Did this awaken doubt in y.our soul of 
my love for you 1 I knew not where you were, 
nor could I learn. A few days afterwards a 
singular old woman came to me, and presented 
to me a note, in which you had written, * I 
journey to Naples !’ and to which your name 
was signed. She said that you must have a 
passport and money ; I influenced Bernardo to 
obtain this from his uncle the senator. At 
that time my wish was a command, my word 
had power. I obtained that which I desired. 
Bernardo was also troubled about you. 

“ He became perfectly well again, and he 
loved me, I believe really that he honestly loved 
me ; but you alone occupied all my thoughts. 
He left Rome, and I, too, was obliged to go to 
Naples ; my old friend’s illness compelled me 
to remain for a month at Mola di Gaeta. When 
at last we arrived at Naples, I heard of a young 
improvisatore, Cenci, who had made his debut 
on the very evening of my arrival, I had a pre- 
sentiment that it was you — I obtained certainty 
thereof. My old friend wrote immediately to 
you, without giving our name, though she men- 
tioned our residence. But you came not : she 
wrote again, without the name, it is true, but 
you must have known from whom it was sent. 
She wrote, ‘ Come, Antonio, the terror of the 
last unfortunate moment in which we were to- 
gether is now well over ! Come quickly ! re- 
gard that as a misunderstanding — all can be 
made right — only do not delay to come.’ 

“ But you came not. I ascertained that you 
had read the letter, and that you had imme- 
diately set off back to Rome. What could I 
believe 1 that your love was all over. I, too, 
was proud, Antonio ! the world had made my 


soul vain. I did not forget you — I gave you up, 
and suffered severely in so doing. 

“My old friend died, her brother followed 
after her ; they had be$n as parents to me. I 
stood quite alone in the world, but I was still 
its favourite ; was young and beautiful, and 
brilliant in my powers of song. That was the 
last year of my life. 

“ I fell sick on the journey to Bologna, very 
sick — my heart suffered. Antonio, I knew not 
that you thought still affectionately on me, that 
you, at a time when the happiness of the world 
deserted me, would press a kiss upon my hand. 
I lay sick for a year, the property which I had 
accumulated in the two years in which I was 
a singer melted away ; I was poor, and doubly 
poor, for my voice was gone, sickness had en- 
feebled me. Years went on, almost seven 
years, and then we met — you have seen my 
poverty f Y ou certainly heard how they hissed 
off the Annunciata who once was drawn in 
triumph through the streets of Rome. Bitter 
as my fate had my thoughts also become ! 

“ You came to me — like scales, all fell away 
from my eyes, I felt that you had sincerely 
loved me. You said to me that it was I who 
had driven you out into the world, — you knew 
not how I had loved you, had stretched, as it 
were, my arms after you ! But I have seen 
you — your lips have glowed upon my hand as 
in former, better times ! We are separated — 
I sit again alone in the little chamber ; to-mor- 
row I must leave it — perhaps Venice ! Be not 
anxious about me, Antonio, Madonna is good 
and merciful ! Think honestly of me, it is the 
dead which beseeches this from you, — Annun- 
ciata, who has loved you, and prays now and — 
in heaven for you !” 

My tears streamed as I read this, it was as 
if my heart would dissolve itself in weeping. 

The remainder of the letter was written some 
days later. It was, the last parting : — 

“ My want draws to an end ! Madonna be 
praised for every joy which she has sent me, 
praised be she also for every woe ! In my 
heart is death T the blood streams from it * 
only once more and then it is all over. 

“ The most beautiful and the noblest maid 
in Venice is your bride, the people have told 
me. May you be happy is the last wish of the 
dying ! I know no one in the world to whom 
I could give these lines, my last farewell, ex- 
cept to her. My heart tells me that she will 
come — tells me that a noble womanly heart 
will not refuse the last refreshing draught to 
her who stands on the last step between life 
and death " She will come to me. 

“ F arewell, Antonio ! my last prayer on earth, 
my first in heaven, will be for thee — for her 
who will be to thee what I never could be ! 
There was vanity in my heart — the worlds 
praise had set it there. Perhaps thou would’st 
never have been happy with me, else the Ma- 
donna would not have divided us ! 

“ Farewell ! farewell ! I feel peace in my 
heart — my suffering is over — death is near ! 

“ Pray, also, thou and Maria, for me ! 

“ Annunciata.” 

The deepest pain has no words. Stupefied — 
overwhelmed — I sat and stared at the lette», 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


which was wet with my tears. Annunciata 
nad loved me ! She was the invisible spirit 
which had conducted me to Naples. The let- 
ter had been from her, and -not from Santa, as I 
had imagined. Annunciata had been ill, sunk 
in poverty and misery, and now she was dead 
— certainly dead ! The little note which I had 
given to Fulvia, with the words, “ I go to Na- 
ples !” and which she had taken to Annunci- 
ata, lay also in the packet of letters, together 
with an open letter from Bernardo, in which 
he sent her his farewell, and announced to her 
his determination to leave Rome and enter into 
foreign service, but without saying what. 

To Maria had she given the packet of letters 
for me ; she had called Maria my bride. That 
empty report had also reached Annunciata, and 
she had believed it, had called Maria to her. 
What could she have said to her 1 

I recalled to mind with what anxiety Maria 
had spoken to me, — thus she also knew wiiat 
Venice imagined about us both. I had not 
courage to talk to her about it, and yet I must 
do it, she was really mine and Annunciata’s 
good angel. 

I took a gondola, and was soon in the room 
w'here Rosa and Maria sat together at their 
work. Maria was embarrassed, nor had I cour- 
age to say what solely and alone occupied me. 
I answered at random to every question, sor- 
row oppressed my soul ; when the kind-heart- 
ed Signora Rosa took my hand, and said, — 

“ There is some great trouble on your mind 
— have confidence in us. If we cannot console, 
we can sorrow with a true friend.” 

“ You really know every thing !” exclaimed 
I, giving voice to my distress. 

“ Maria, perhaps !” replied the aunt ; “ but *1 
know as good as nothing.” 

“ Rosa !” said Maria, beseechingly, and 
caught her hand. 

“ No, before you I have no secrets !” said I ; 
“ I will tell you every thing.” 

And I then told them about my poor child- 
hood, about Annunciata, and my flight to Na- 
ples ; but w'hen I saw Maria sitting with folded 
hands before me, as Flaminia had sat, and as 
yet another being beside had sat, I was silent. 
I had not courage to speak of Lara and of the 
dream-picture in the cave, in the presence of 
Maria ; besides, it seemed not to belong to the 
history of Annunciata. I went on, therefore, 
directly to our meeting in Venice and our last 
conversation. Maria pressed her hands before 
her eyes and wept. Rosa w'as silent. 

“Of all this I knew nothing — divined no- 
thing !” said she, at length. “ A letter came,” 
continued she, “ from the Hospital of the Sis- 
ters of Charity to Maria ; a dying woman, it 
said, besought her, by all the saints — by her 
own heart, to come to her. I accompanied her 
in the gondola, but as she w r as to be alone, I 
remained with the sisters whilst she w r ent to 
the bed of the dying.” 

“I saw Annunciata,” said Maria. “You 
have received that which she has commission- 
ed me to convey to you.” 

“And she said?” I asked. 

“ ‘ Give that to Antonio, the improvisatore ; 
but, unknown to any one.’ She spoke of you, 
spoke as a sister might — as a good spirit might 
speak ; and I saw blood — {flood upon her lips. 


117 

She cast up her eyes in death, and — ” Here 
Maria burst into tears. 

I silently pressed her hand to my lips ; thank- 
ed her for her pity, for her goodness, in going 
to Annunciata. 

I hurried away, and, entering a church, 
. prayed for the dead. 

Never did I meet with such great kindness 
and friendship as from this moment in the 
house of the Podesta. I was a beloved brother 
to Rosa and Maria, who endeavoured to antici- 
pate every wish ; even in the veriest trifles I 
saw r evidences of their solicitude for me. 

I visited Annunciata’s grave. The church- 
yard was a floating ark, with high walls — an 
island garden of the dead. I saw a green plot 
before me, marked with many black crosses. 
I found the grave for which I sought. “ An- 
nunciata” was its sole inscription. A fresh, 
beautiful gailand of laurels hung on the cross, 
w'hich marked it unquestionably a gift from 
Maria and Rosa. I thanked them both for this 
kind attention. 

How lovely was Maria in her gentleness ! 
What a wonderful resemblance had she to my 
image of beauty, Lara ! When she cast down 
her eyes, it seemed to me that they w r ere, spite 
of the improbability, the same person. 

About this time I received a letter from Fa- 
biani. I w r as now in the fourth month of my 
residence in Venice. This astonished him. 
He thought that I should not spend longer time 
in this city, but visit Milan or Genoa. But he 
left it quite to me to do whatever seemed the 
best to myself. 

That w'hich detained me thus in Venice was 
that it w r as my city of sorrow. As such it had 
greeted me on my arrival, and here my life’s 
best dream had dissolved itself in tears. Ma- 
ria and Rosa w r ere to me affectionate sisters, 
Poggio a love-w'orthy, faithful friend. I should 
find nobody like them ; but, nevertheless, we 
must part. In this my sorrow found its nour- 
ishment. Yes, hence — hence ! — that w r as my 
resolve ! 

I wished to prepare Rosa and Maria for it ; 
it w T as necessary that they should be made ac- 
quainted with it. In the evening I was sitting 
with them in the great hall, where the balcony 
goes over the canal. Maria wished that the 
servant should bring. in the lamp, but Rosa 
thought that it was much more charming in the 
clear moonlight. 

“ Sing to us, Maria,” said she ; “ sing to us 
that beautiful song which thou learnt about the 
Troglodite cave. Let Antonio hear it.” 

Maria sang a singular, quiet cradle-song to a 
low, strange melody. The w r ords and the air 
melted one into the other, and revealed to 
heart and thought the home of beauty under 
the ethereally clear waves. 

“ There is something so spiritual, so trans- 
parent, in the whole song !” said Rosa. 

“Thus must spirits reveal themselves out 
of the body !” exclaimed I. 

“ Thus floats the world’s beauty before the 
blind !” sighed Maria. 

“ But then it is not really so beautiful when 
the eyes can see it?” asked Rosa. 

“ Not so beautiful, and yet more beautiful !* 
replied Maria. 




118 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


Rosa then told me what I had already heard 
from Poggio, that Maria had been blind, and 
that her brother had given sight to her eyes. 
Maria mentioned his name with love and grat- 
itude ; told me how childish her ideas had 
then been about the world around her — about 
the warm sun, about human beings, about the 
broad-leaved cactuses, and the great temples. 
“ In Greece there are many more than there 
are here,” remarked she, suddenly ; and there 
was a pause in her relation. 

“ How the strong and the beautiful in sound,” 
continued she, “ suggested to me colours. The 
violets were blue — the sea and heaven were 
blue also, they told me ; and the fragrance of 
the violet taught me how beautiful heaven and 
the sea must be. When the bodily eye is dead, 
the spiritual eye sees more clearly. The blind 
learn to believe in a spirit world. Every thing 
which they behold reveals itself from this !” 

I thought of Lara with the blue violets in 
her dark hair. The fragrance of the orange- 
trees led me also to Peestum, where violets 
and red gilliflowers grow among the ruins of 
the Temple. We talked about the great beau- 
ty of nature, about the sea and the mountains, 
and Rosa longed after her beautiful Naples. 

I then told them that my departure was near, 
and that I, in a few days, must leave Venice. 

“ You will leave us 1” said Rose, astonished. 
“We had not the slightest idea of that.” 

“Will you not come again to Venice 1” 
inquired Maria ; “ come again to see your 
friends 1” 

“Yes, yes, certainly!” exclaimed I. And 
although that had not been my plan, I assured 
them that, from Milan, I would return to Rome 
by Venice. But did I myself believe so 1 

I visited Annunciata’s grave, took a leaf 
from the garland which hung there, as if I 
should never return ; and that was the last 
time that I came there ! That which the 
grave preserved was dust. In my heart ex- 
isted the impression of its beauty, and the 
spirit dwelt with the Madonna, whose image it 
was. Annunciata’s grave, and the little room 
where Rosa and Maria extended to me their 
hands at parting, alone were witness to my 
tears and my grief. 

“ May you find a noble wife who will supply 
the loss which your heart has sustained !” said 
Rosa, at our parting. “ Bring her some time 
to my arms. I know that I shall love her, as 
you have taught me to love Annunciata!” 

“ Come back happy !” said Maria. 

I kissed her hand, and her eyes rested with 
an expression of deep emotion upon me. The 
Podesta stood with a sparkling glass of cham- 
pagne, and Poggio struck up a merry travelling 
song about the rolling wheel and the bird’s song 
in the free landscape. He accompanied me in 
the gondola as far as Fusina. The ladies wa- 
ved their white handkerchiefs from the balcony. 

How much might not happen before we saw 
each other again 1 Poggio was merry to an 
excess ; but I felt very plainly that it was not 
natural. He pressed me vehemently to his 
breast, and said that we would correspond 
industriously. “ Thou wilt tell me about thy 
beautiful bride, and don’t forget about our wa- 
ger !” said he. 


“ How canst thou jest at this moment 1” said 
I. “ Thou knowest my determination 
We parted. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

i 

THE REMARKABLE OBJECTS IN VERONA THE CA- 
THEDRAL OF MILAN THE MEETING AT THE 

TRIUMPHAL ARCH OF NAPOLEON DREAM AND 

REALITY THE BLUE GROTTO. 

The carriage rolled away. I saw the green 
Bronta, the weeping willows, and the distant 
mountains. Towards evening I arrived in 
Padua. The church of St. Antonius, with its 
seven proud domes, saluted me in the clear 
moonlight. All was animation and cheerful- 
ness under the colonnade of the street'; but I 
felt myself a stranger and alone. 

In the sunshine all appeared to me still more 
Unpleasing. Onward, yet farther onward 1 
Travelling enlivens and chases away sorrow, 
thought I, and the carriage rolled forward. 

The country was all a great plain, but fresh- 
ly green, as the Pontine Marshes. The lofty 
weeping willows hung, like great cascades, 
over the gardens, around which stood altars 
with the holy image of the Madonna ; some of 
them were bleached by time ; the walls even 
on which they were painted were sunk in ruins, 
but in other places also stood newly painted 
pictures of the Mother and Child. I remarked, 
that the vetturino lifted his hat to the new pic- 
tures, the old and faded he seemed not to ob- 
serve. It amused me wonderfully. Perhaps, 
hhwever, I saw more in it than there really 
was. Even the holy, pure image of the Ma- 
donna herself was overlooked and forgotten be- 
cause the earthly colours were faded. 

I passed through Vicenza, where the art of 
Palladio could cast no ray of light over my 
troubled heart — on to Verona, the first of all 
the cities which attracted iVie. The amphi- 
theatre led me back to Rome, and reminded 
me of the Coliseum ; it is a pretty little model 
of that, more distinct, and not laid waste by 
barbarians. The spacious colonnades are con- 
verted into warehouses, and in the middle of 
the arena was erected a little booth of linen 
and boards, where a little theatrical company, 
as I was told, gave representations. I wont in 
the evening. The Veronese sat upon the stone 
benches of the amphitheatre, where their fa- 
thers had sat before them. In this little thea- 
tre was acted “La Cencrentola .” It was the 
company with which Annunciata had been. 
Aurelia performed the principal parts in the 
opera. The whole was miserable and melan- 
choly to witness. The old, antique theatre 
stood like a giant around the fragile wooden 
booth. A contre-dance completely drowned the 
few instruments ; the public applauded, and 
called for Aurelia. I hastened away. Outside 
all was still. The great giant-building cast a 
broad, dark shadow amid the strong moonlight. 

They told me of the families of the Capuleti 
and Montecchi, whose strife divided two loving 
hearts, which death again united — the history 
of Romeo and Juliet. I went up to the Palazzo 
Capuleti, where Romeo, for the first time, saw 
his Juliet, and danced with her. The house is 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


119 


now an inn. I ascended the steps up which 
Romeo had stolen to love and death. The 
great dancing-hall stood there yet, with its dis- 
coloured pictures on the walls, and the great 
windows down to the floor ; but all around lay 
hay and straw ; beside the walls were ranged 
lime-barrels, and in a corner were thrown down 
horse-furniture and field-implements. Here had 
once the proudest race of Verona floated to the 
sound of billowy music — here had Romeo and 
Juliet dreamed love's short dream. I deeply 
felt how empty is all human glory ; felt that 
Flaminia had taken hold on the better part, and 
that Annunciata had obtained it, and I regarded 
my dead as happy. 

My heart throbbed as with the fire of fever ; 
I had no rest. To Milan ! thought I ; there is 
now my home ; and I yearned towards it. To- 
wards the end of the month I was there. No ! 
there I found that I was much better at Venice, 
much more at home ! I felt that I was alone, 
and yet would make no acquaintance, would 
deliver none of the letters of introduction with 
which I had been furnished. 

The gigantic theatre, with its covered boxes, 
which range themselves in six rows, one above 
# another, the whole immense space, which yet 
is so seldom filled, had in it, to me, something 
desolative and oppressive. I once was there, 
and heard Donizetti’s Torquato Tasso. To the 
most honoured singer, who was called for, and 
called for again, it seemed to me, that, like our 
gloomy magician, I could prophesy a future full 
of misery. I wished her rather to die in this 
her beauty and the moment of her happiness ; ■ 
then the world would weep over her, and not 
she over the world. . Lovely children danced in 
the ballet ; my heart bled at their beauty. Nev- 
er more will I go to La Scala. 

Alone, I wandered about the great city, 
through the shadowy streets ; alone I sat in my 
chamber, and began to compose a tragedy, 
“ Leonardo da Vinci here he had actually 
lived ; here I had seen his immortal work, 
“ The Last Supper.” The legend of his unfor- 
tunate love of his t>eloved, from whom the con- 
vent separated him, was indeed a re-echo of 
my own life. I thought of Flaminia, of Annun- 
ciata, and wrote that which my heart breathed. 
But I missed Poggio, missed Maria and Rosa. 
My sick heart longed for their affectionate at- 
tention and friendship. I wrote to them, but 
received no answer, neither did Poggio keep 
his beautiful promise of letters and friendship, 
he was like all the rest ; we call them friends, 
and, in absence, knit ourselves firmer to them ! 

I went daily to the cathedral of Milan, that 
singular mountain which was torn out of the 
rocks of Carrara. I saw the church for the 
first time in the clear ‘moonlight ; dazzlingly’ 
white stood the upper part of it in the infinitely 
blue ether. Round about, wherever I looked, 
from every corner, upon every little tower with 
which the building was, as it were, overlaid, 
projected marble figures. Its interior dazzled 
me more than St. Peter’s Church ; the strange 
gloom, the light which streamed through the 
painted windows — the wonderful mystical 
world which revealed itself here — yes, it was a 
church of God ! 

I had been a month in Milan before I ascend- 
ed t he roof of the church. The sun blazed upoa 


its shining, white surface ; the towers stood 
aloft, like churches or chapels upon a mighty 
marble space. Milan lay far below ; and all 
around me presented themselves statues of 
saints and martyrs which my eye could not 
see from the streets below. I stood up just by 
the mighty figure of Christ, which terminates 
the whole gigantic building. Towards the 
north arose the lofty, dark Alps ; towards the 
south, the pale blue Apennines ; and between 
these an immense green plain, as if it were the 
flat Campagna of Rome changed into a bloom- 
ing garden. I looked towards the east, where 
Venice lay. A flock of birds of passage, in a 
long line, like a waving riband, sped thither- 
ward. I thought of my beloved ones there, of 
Poggio, Rosa, and Maria ; and a painful yearn 
ing awoke in my breast. I could not but re- 
member the old story which I had heard, as a 
child, on that evening, when I went with my 
mother and Mariuccia from Lake Nemi, where 
we had seen the bird of prey, and where Ful- 
via had shown herself; the story which Ange- 
lina had told about the poor Therese of Olivano, 
who wasted away with care and longing after 
the slender Giuseppe, and how he was drawn 
from his northern journey beyond the mount- 
ains, and how the old Fulvia had cooked herbs 
in a copper vessel, which she had made to sim- 
mer for many days over the glowing coals, un- 
til Giuseppe was seized upon by longing, and 
was compelled to go home ; night and day to 
speed back without stop or stay, to where her 
vessel was boiling with holy herbs, and a lock 
of his and Therese’s hair. ♦ 

I felt that magic power within my breast 
which drew me away, and which is called, by 
the inhabitants of mountain regions, home-sick- 
ness, but this it was not in me ; Venice was 
really not my home. My mind was strongly 
affected ; I fell, as it were, ill, and descended 
from the roof of the church. 

I found in my room a letter — it was from 
Poggio ; at length there was a letter ! It ap- 
peared from the letter that he had written an 
earlier one, which, however, I had not receiv- 
ed. Every thing was merry and well in Ven- 
ice, but Maria had been ill — very ill ; they had 
all been anxious and in great trouble, but now 
all was over ; she had left her bed, although 
she did not venture to go out yet. . Hereupon 
Poggio joked with me, and inquired whether 
any young Milanese lady had captivated me, 
and besought me not to forget the champagne 
and our wager. 

The whole letter was full of fun and merri- 
ment, very different to my own state of mind, 
and yet it gladdened me ; it was actually as if 
I saw the happy, fun-loving Poggio. How in 
the world can we form a true judgment of men 
and things 1 It w T as said of him that he went 
with a deep, secret sorrow in his breast, and 
that his gaiety was only a masquerade dress; 
that is nature. It w r as said that Maria was my 
bride, and yet how far from my heart ! I long- 
ed, it is true, for her, and for Rosa also ; but 
nobody said that I w T as in love with old Signora 
Rosa. Oh, that I w r ere but in Venice ! Here 
I cannot stay an/ longer ! And again I jested 
over this strange voice within my breast. 

In order to get rid of these thoughts, I went 
out of the gate above the Piazza d’Arni to tho 




120 


THE IMPRO^ [SATORE. 


triumphal arch of Napoleon, — the Porta Sem- 
pione, as it is called. Here were the work- 
men in full activity. I. went in through a hole 
in the low wall of boards which enclosed the 
whole of the unfinished building ; two large, 
new horses of marble stood upon the ground, 
the grass grew high above the pedestals, and 
all around lay marble blocks and carved capi- 
tals. 

A stranger stood there with his guide, and 
wrote down in a book the details which were 
given him ; he looked like a man in about his 
thirtieth year. I passed him ; he had two Ne- 
apolitan orders on his coat ; he was looking up 
at the building — I knew him — it was Bernardo. 
He also saw me, sprang towards me, clasped 
me in his arms, and laughed aloud. 

“Antonio!” exclaimed he, “thanks for the 
last ; it was, indeed, a merry parting, with 
firing and ‘effect! We are, however, friends 
now, I imagine V* 

An ice-cold sensation passed through my 
blood. 

“ Bernardo,” exclaimed I, “ do we see one 
another again in the north, and near the Alps 1” 

“ Yes, and I come from the Alps mountains,” 
said he — “ from the glaciers and the avalanch- 
es ! I have seen the world’s end up there in 
those cold mountains !” 

He then told me that he had been the whole 
summer in Switzerland. The German officers 
in Naples had told him so much about the great- 
ness of Switzerland, and it was such a very 
easy thing to take a flight from Naples to Ge- 
noa, and then one gets so far ! He had been 
to the valley of Chamouni, ascended Mont 
Blanc, and the Jungfrau, “ La Bella Ragczza ,” 
as he called it. “ She is the coldest that ever 
I knew,” said he. 

We went together to the new amphitheatre, 
and back to the city. He told me that he was 
now on his way to Genoa, to visit his bride and 
her parents ; that he was just upon the point 
of becoming a sober, married man ; invited me 
to accompany him, and whispered, laughing, 
into my ear, 

“ You tell me nothing about my tame bird, 
about our little singer, and all those histories ! 
You have now learned yourself that they belong 
to a young heart’s history ; my bride might oth- 
erwise easily get a headache, and she is quite 
too dear to me for that !” 

It was impossible for me to mention Annun- 
eiata to him, for I felt that he had never loved 
her as I had done. 

“Now% go with me!” urged he. “There 
are pretty girls in Genoa, and now you are be- 
come old and rational, and have got some taste 
for tlfese things. Naples has been the making 
of you ! Is it not sol In about three days 1 
shall set off; go with me, Antonio !” 

“ But I set off to-morrow morning also,” said 
I, involuntarily. I had not thought of this be- 
fore, but now the thing was said. 

“ Where ?” inquired he. 

“ To Venice !” replied I. 

“ But you can change your plan !” continued 
he, and pressed his own very much upon me. 

I assured him so strongly aBout the necessi- 
ty of my journey, that I also began to see my- 
self that I must go. 

I had within myself neither peace nor rest, 


and arranged every thing for my journey, as if 
it had been for a long time my determination. 

It was the invisible guidance of God’s won- 
derful Providence which led me away from Mi- 
lan. It was impossible for me to sleep at 
night ; I lay for some hours on my bed in a 
short, wild fever-dream, in a state of w r aking 
sickness. “ To Venice !” cried the voice with- 
in my breast. 

I saw Bernardo for the last time ; bade him 
to salute his bride for me : and then flew back 
again whither I had come two months before. 

At some moments it seemed to me as if I 
had taken poison, which thus fomented in my 
blood. An inexplicable anxiety drove me on- 
wards — what coming evil was at hand? 

I approached Fusina, saw again Venice, with 
its grey walls, the tower of St. Mark’s, and the 
Lagunes ; and then all at once banished my 
strange unrest, my yearning and anxiety, and 
there arose within me another feeling, what 
shall I call it? — shame of myself, displeasure, 
dissatisfaction. I could not comprehend what 
it was that I wanted here, felt how foolishly I 
had behaved, and it seemed to me that every 
body must say so, and that every body would 
ask me, “What art thou doing again in Yen- # 
ice?” 

I went to my old lodgings ; dressed myself 
in haste, and felt that I must immediately pay 
a visit to Rosa and Maria, however enfeebled 
and excited I might feel. 

What, however, would they say to my arri- 
val? 

The gondola neared the palace ; what strange 
thoughts can enter the human breast ! What 
if thou shouklst now enter at a moment of fes- 
tivity and rejoicing ? What if Maria be a bride ? 
But, what then ? I really did not love her ! I 
had said so a thousand times to myself; a 
thousand times had assured Poggio, and every 
one else who had said so, that I did not ! 

I saw once more the grey-green walls, the 
lofty windows, and my heart trembled with 
yearning. I entered the house. Solemnly and 
silently the servant opened the door, expressed 
no surprise at my arrival ; it seemed to me that 
quite another subject occupied him. 

“ The Podesta is always at home to you, sig- 
nore !” said he. 

A stillness, as of death, reigned in the great 
hall ; the curtains were drawn. Here had Des- 
demona lived, thought I ; here, perhaps, suffer- 
ed ; and yet Othello suffered more severely than 
she did. How came I now to think of this old 
history ? 

I went to Rosa’s apartment ; here also the 
curtains were drawn — it was in a half-dark- 
ness, and I felt again that strange anxiety which 
had accompanied me in the whole journey, and 
had driven me back to Venice. A trembling 
went through all my limbs, and I was obliged to 
support myself that I did not fall. 

The Podesta then came in ; he embraced me, 
and seemed glad to see me again. I inquired 
after Maria and Rosa — and it seemed to me 
that he became very grave. 

“They are gone away!” said he; “have 
made a little journey with another family to 
Padua. They will return either to-morrow or 
the day after.” 

I know not wherefore, but I felt as if I doubt- 


121 


THE 1MPR0VISAT0RE. 


eel his word ; perhaps it was the fever in my 
blood, the wild fever, which my pain of mind 
had increased, and which now approached the 
period of its breaking forth. This it was which 
had operated upon my whole spiritual being, and 
had occasioned the journey back. 

At the supper-table I missed Rosa and Maria ; 
nor was the Podesta as he used to be. It was, 
he said, a lawsuit which had rather put him out 
of sorts, but it was nothing of consequence. 

“ Poggio is not any where to be met with ei- 
ther,” said he. “ All misfortunes come-togeth- 
er ; and you are ill ! Yes, it is a merry soiree ! 
we must see if the wine cannot cheer us up ! 
But you are pale as death!” exclaimed he, all 
at once, and I felt that every thing vanished 
from my sight. I had fallen into a state of un- 
consciousness. 

It was a fever, a violent nervous fever. 

I only know that I found myself in a comfort- 
able darkened chamber ; the Podesta was sit- 
ting beside me, and said that I should remain 
with him, and that I should soon be well again. 
Rosa, he said, should nurse me ; but he never 
mentioned Maria. 

I was in a state of consciousness, as it were 
between sleep and awake. After a time I heard 
it said that the ladies had arrived, and that I 
should soon see them ; and I did see Rosa, but 
she was much troubled : it seemed to me that 
she wept, but that, indeed, could not be for me, 
for I felt myself already much stronger. 

It was evening ; there prevailed an anxious 
silence around me, and yet a movement ; they 
did not answer my questions distinctly ; my 
hearing seemed quickened, I heard that many 
people were moving about in the hall below me, 
and I heard too the strokes of the oars of many 
gondolas, and the reality was made kndwn to 
me as I half slumbered — they imagined that I 
was asleep. 

Maria was dead. Poggio had mentioned to 
me her illness, and had said that now she was 
recovered, but a relapse had caused her death. 
She was going to be buried this evening, but 
all this they had concealed from me. Maria’s 
death, like an invisible power, had weighed upon 
my life ! For her was that strange anxiety 
which I had felt, but I had come too late ; I 
should behold her no more. She was now in 
the world of spirits, to which she had always 
belonged. Rosa had certainly adorned her 
coffin with violets : the blue, fragrant flowers 
which she loved so much, now that she slept 
with the flowers. 

I lay immovably still, as in a death sleep, and 
heard Rosa thank God for it : she then went 
away from me ; there was not a single creature 
in the room ; the evening was dark, and I felt 
my strength wonderfully invigorated. I knew 
that in the Dei-frari church was the burial-place 
of the Podesta’s family, and that during the 
night the dead would be placed before the altar. 

I must see her — I rose up — my fever was gone 
— I was strong. I threw my cloak around me 
—no one saw me, and I entered a gondola. 

My whole thought was of the dead. The 
church doors were closed, because it was long 
after the Ave Maria. I knocked at the sexton’s 
door ; he knew me, had seen me before in the 
church with the Podesta's family, and shewed j 
me within the graves of Canova and Titian. 

Q 


“Do ybu wish to see the dead!” asked he, 
guessing my thoughts ; “ she lies at the altar in 
the open coffin ; to-morrow she will be placed 
in the chapel.” 

He lighted candles, took out a bunch of keys, 
and opened a little side-door ; our footsteps re- 
echoed through the lofty, silent vault. He re- 
mained behind, and I went slowly through the 
long, empty passage ; a lamp burned feebly and 
dimly upon the altar before the image of the 
Madonna. The white marble statues around 
the tomb of Canova stood like the dead in their 
shrouds, silently and with uncertain outlines. 
Before the principal altar three lights were burn- 
ing. I felt no anxiety, no pain — it was as if 1 
myself belonged also to the dead, and that 1 was 
now entering into my own peculiar home. I 
approached the altar ; the fragrance of violets 
was diffused around ; the rays of light fell from 
the lamp into the open coffin down upon the 
dead. It was Maria ; she seemed to sleep ; 
she lay like a marble image of beauty scatter- 
ed over with violets. The dark hair was bound 
upon the forehead, in which was placed a bou- 
quet of violets ; the closed- eyes, the image of 
perfect peace and beauty, seized upon my soul. 
It was Lara whom I saw, as she sat in the ruins 
of the temple, when I impressed a kiss upon her 
brow ; but she was a dead marble statue, with- 
out life and warmth. 

“ Lara !” exclaimed I, “ in death thy closed 
eyes, thy silent lips speak to me; I know thee 
— have known thee in Maria ! My last thought 
in life is death with thee !” 

My heart found relief in tears ; I wept ; my 
tears fell upon the countenance of the dead, 
and I kissed the tears away. 

“ All have left me !” sighed I ; “ thou also, 
the last of whom my heart dreamed ! Not as 
for Annunciata, not as for Flaminia, burned 
my soul for thee ! — it was the pure, true love, 
which angels feel, that my heart cherished for 
thee ; and I did not believe that it was love, 
because it was more spiritual than my outward 
thought! Never have I understood it — never 
ventured to express it to thee ! Farewell thou ! 
the last, my heart’s bride ! Blessed be thy 
slumber !” 

I pressed a kiss upon her brow. 

“ My soul’s bride !” continued I, “ to no 
woman will I give my hand. Farewell ! fare- 
well !” 

I took off my ring, placed it on Lara’s finger 
and lifted my eyes to the invisible God above 
us. At that moment a horror passed through 
my blood, for it seemed to me as if the hand of 
the dead returned the pressure of mine ; it was 
no mistake. I fixed my eyes upon her ; the 
lips moved : every thing around me was in 
motion : I felt that my hair rose upon my head. 
Horror, the horror of death, paralysed my arms- 
and my feet ; I could not escape. 

“ I am cold,” whispered a voice behind me. 

“ Lara ! Lara !” I cried, and all was night be- 
fore my eyes, but.it seemed to me that the organ 
played a soft, touching melody. A hand passed 
softly over my head ; rays of light forced their 
way to my eyes ; every thing became so clear, 
so bright ! — 

“ Antonio !” whispered Rosa, and I saw her. 
The lamp burned upon the table, and beside 
my bed lay a kneeling figure, and wept. I saw 


122 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


then that I beheld realty before me, that my 
horror was only that of wild fever-dream. 

“ Lara ! Lara !” exclaimed I. She pressed 
her hands before her eyes. But what had I 
said in my delirium'! This thought stood viv- 
idly before my remembrance, and I read in Ma- 
ria’s eyes that she had been witness to my 
heart’s confessions. 

“ The fever is over,” whispered Rosa. 

“Yes; I feel myself much better — much 
better,” exclaimed I, and looked at-Maria. She 
rose up, and was about to leave the room. 

“ Do not go from me !” I prayed, and stretch- 
ed forth my hands after her. 

She remained, and stood silently blushing be- 
fore me. 

“ I dreamt that your were dead,” said I. 

“ It was a delirious dream !” exclaimed Rosa, 
and handed to me the medicine which the phy- 
sician had prescribed. 

“ Lara, Maria, hear me !” I cried. “ It is no 
delirious dream ! I feel life returned back to 
my blood ! My whole life must then have been 
a strange dream. We have seen one another 
before ! You heard my voice before, at Paes- 
tum, at Capri. You know it again, Lara ! I 
feel it ; life is so short ; why, then, not offer to 
each other our hands in this brief meeting 1” 

I extended my hand towards her ; she press- 
ed it to her lips. 

“I love thee; have always loved thee!” 
said I ; and, without d word, she sank on her 
knees beside me. 

♦ 

Love, says the Mythi, brought chaos into or- 
der, and created the world. Before every lov- 
ing heart creation renews itself. From Maria’s 
eyes I drank in life and health. She loved me. 
When a few days were passed we stood alone 
in the little room, where the orange-trees breath- 
ed forth fragrance from the balcony. Here she 
sung to me, but in softer tones, more spiritual 
and deeper, sounded to my ear, the confession of 
the noblest of hearts. I had made no mistake ; 
Lara and Maria were one and the same person. 

“ I have always loved thee !” said she. “ Thy 
song awoke longing and pain in my breast, when 
I was blind and solitary, with my dreams, and 
knew only the fragrance of the violets. And 
the warm sun ! how its beams burned thy kiss 
into my forehead — into my heart ! The blind 
possess only a spiritual world ; and in that I be- 
held thee ! The night after I heard thy improv- 
isation in the Temple of Neptune, at Paestum, 
I had a singular dream, which blended itself 
with reality. A gipsy-woman had told me my 
fortune — that I should again receive my sight. 
I dreamed about her, dreamed that she said I 
must go with Angelo, my old foster-father, and 
sail across the sea to Capri ; that in the Witch’s 
Cave I should receive again the light of my eyes ; 
that the Angel of Life would give me herbs, 
which, like Tobias’s, should enable my eyes 
again to behold God’s world. The dream was 
repeated again the same flight. I told it to 
Angelo, but he only shook his head. 

“ The next night, in the morning-hour, he 
dreamed it himself. On which he said, ‘ Blessed 
be the power of Madonna ; the bad spirits must 
even obey her !’ 

“ We arose ; he spread the sail, and we flew 
across the sea. The day passed, evening came, 


and night, but I was in a strange world, heard 
how the Angel of Life pronounced my name — 
and the voice sounded like thine. He gave us 
herbs and great riches — treasures collected from 
the different countries of the world. 

“ We boiled the herbs ; but no light came to 
my eyes. One day, however, Rosa’s brother 
came to Peestum ; he came into our cottage, 
where I lay, and, affected by the yearning de- 
sire which I expressed to see God’s beautiful 
world, he promised me sight to my eyes, took 
me with him to Naples, and there I saw the 
great magnificence of life. He and Rosa be- 
came very fond of me ; they opened to me an- 
other and a more beautiful world — that of the 
soul. I remained with them ; they called me 
Maria, after a beloved sister, who was dead in 
Greece. 

“ One day Angelo brought to me the rich 
treasure, and said that it was mine ; his death, 
he said, was at hand ; that he had expended his 
last strength in bringingmemy own inheritance; 
and his words were the last of a dying man. I 
saw him expire — him, the only protector of ray 
poverty ! 

“ One evening, Rosa’s brother inquired from 
me very seriously about my old foster-father, 
and the treasure which he had brought. I knew 
no more than that which he had said, that the 
spirit in the glittering cave had given him this. 
I knew that we had always lived in poverty. 
Angelo could not he a pirate — he was so pious; 
every little gift he divided with me.” 

I then told her how singularly her life’s ad- 
venture had blended itself with mine’; how I 
had seen her with the old man in the wonderful 
grotto. That the old man himself took the heavy 
vessel I would not tell her, but I told her that I 
gave her the herbs. 

“ But,” exclaimed she, “ the spirit sank into 
the earth as it reached to me the herbs ! So 
Angelo told me.” 

“ It appeared so to him,” I returned ; “ I was 
debilitated ; my feet could not sustain me ; I 
sank on my knees, and then fainted among the 
long green grass.” 

That wondrously glittering world in which 
we had met was the indissoluble — the firm knot 
between the supernatural and the real. 

“ Our love is of the spiritual world !” exclaim- 
ed I ; “ all our love tended towards the world 
of spirits ; towards that we advance in our 
earthly life ; wherefore, then, not believe in it 1 
it is precisely the great reality !” And I pressed 
Lara to my heart ; she was beautiful as she was 
the first time I saw her. 

“ I recognised thee by thy voice when I first 
heard thee in Venice,” said she ; “my heart im- 
pelled me towards thee ; I fancied even in the 
church, before the face of the Mother of God, I 
should have fallen at thy feet. I saw thee here ; 
learned to value thee more and more ; was con- 
ducted, as it were, a second time into thy life’s 
concerns, when Annunciata hailed me as thy 
bride ! But thou repelledst me ; said that thou 
wouldst never love again ! — never vvouldst give 
thy hand to any woman ! — never mentioned 
Lara, Peestum, or Capri, when thou relatedst to 
us the singular destiny of thy life ! Then I be- 
lieved that thou never hadst loved me ; that thou 
hadst forgotten that which did not lie near to 
thy heart !” 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


123 


I impressed a kiss of reconciliation upon her 
hand, and said how strangely her glance had 
dosed my lips. Not until my body lay bound, 
as it were, for the grave, and my spirit itself 
floated into the world of spirits, in which our 
love was so wonderfully knitted together, had I 
ventured to express the thoughts of my heart. 

No stranger, only Rosa and the Podesta knew 
of the happiness of our love. How gladly would 
I have told it to Poggio. He had, during my 
sickness, visited me many times during the day. 
I saw that he looked extremely pale, when, af- 
ter I had left my room, I pressed him to my 
heart in the clear light of the sun. 

“ Come to us this evening, Poggio,” said the 
Podesta to him ; “ but come without fail. You 
will only find here the family, and Antonio, and 
two or three other friends.” 

All was festally arranged. 

“ It is really as if it were to be a nun’s day,” 
said Poggio. 

The Podesta conducted him and the other 
friends to the little chapel, where Lara gave me 
her hand. A bouquet of blue violets was fast- 
ened in her dark hair. The blind girl of Paes- 
tum stood seeing, and doubly beautiful, before 
me. She was mine. 

All congratulated us. The rejoicing was 
great. Poggio sang merrily, and drank health 
upon health. 

“ I have lost my wager,” said I, “ but I lose 
it gladly, because my loss is the winning of my 
happiness,” and I impressed a kiss on Lara’s 
lips. 

The gladness of the others sounded like tu- 
multuous music ; mine and Lara’s was silent ; 
great joy, like great sorrow, has no language 
so eloquent, so expressive as silence. 

“Life is no dream,” thought I; “and the 
happiness of love is a reality.” 

Two days after the bridal, Rosa accompanied 
us from Venice. We went to the estate which 
had been purchased for Maria. I had not seen 
Poggio since the bridal evening. I now receiv- 
ed a letter from him which said merely, — 

“ I won the wager, and yet 1 lost !” 

He was not to be met with in Venice. After 
some time my conjecture became certainty ; he 
had loved Lara. Po®r Poggio ! thy lips sang 
of gladness, but thoughts of death filled thy 
heart ! 

Francesca thought Lara very charming ; I 
myself had won infinitely in this journey, and 
she, Excellenza, and Fabiani all applauded my 
choice. Habbas Dahdah even smiled over his 
whole face as he congratulated me. 

Of the old acquaintance there is yet living, 
in 1837, Uncle Peppo ; he sits upon the Spanish 
Steps, where for many years, certainly he will 
say his “ bon giorno /” 


On the 6th of March, 1834, a great many 
strangers were assembled in the Hotel at Pa- 
gani, on the island of Capri. The attention of 
all was attracted by a young Calabrian lady of 
extraordinary beauty, whose lovely dark eyes 
rested on her husband, who gave her his arm. 
It was I and Lara. We had now been married 
three happy years, and now were visiting, on a 


journey to Venice, the island of Capri, where 
the most wonderful event of our life occurred, 
and where it would clear itself up. 

In one corner of the room stood an old lady, 
and held a little child in her arms. A foreign 
gentleman, tolerably tall, and somewhat pale, 
with strong features, and dressed in a blue 
frock-coat, approached the child, laughed with 
it, and was transported with its loveliness ; he 
spoke French, but to the child a few Italian 
words ; gave merry leaps to make it laugh ; and 
then gave it his mouth to kiss. He asked 
what was its name 1 and the old lady, my be- 
loved Rosa, said it was Annunciata. 

“A lovely name!” said he, and kissed the 
little one — mine and Lara’s. 

I advanced to him ; he was Danish : there 
was still a countryman of his in t fce room, a 
grave little man, with a wise look, and dressed 
in a white surtout. I accosted them politely ; 
they were countrymen of Federigo and the 
great Thorwaldsen. The first, I found, was in 
Denmark, the latter in Rome ; he, indeed, be- 
longs to Italy, and not to the cold, dark north. 

We went down to the shore, and took one of 
those little boats which are calculated to take 
out strangers to the other side of the island. 
Each boat held but two persons : one sat at 
each end, and the rower in the middle. 

I saw the clear water below us. It saluted 
my remembrance with its ethereal dimness. 
The rower worked his oars rapidly, and the 
boat in which I and Lara were seated flew for- 
ward with the speed of an arrow. We soon 
lost sight of the amphitheatre-like side of the 
island, where the green vineyards and orange- 
•trees crown the cliffs ; and, now, the rocky 
wall rose up perpendicularly towards the sky. 
The water was blue as burning sulphur ; the 
blue billows struck against the cliffs, and over 
the blood-red sea-apples which grow below. 

We were now on the opposite side of the isl- 
and, and saw only the perpendicular cliffs, and 
in them, above the surface of the water, a little 
opening, which seemed not large enough for 
our boat. 

“The Witch’s Cave!” exclaimed I, and all 
the recollections of it awoke in my soul. 

“ Yes, the Witch’s Cave !” said the rower ; 
“ it was called so formerly ; but now people 
know what it is !” 

He then told us about the two German paint- 
ers, Fries and Kopisch, who three years before 
had ventured to swim into it, and thus discover- 
ed the extraordinary beauty of the place, which 
now all stingers visit. 

We neared the opening, which raised itself 
scarcely more than an ell above the blue shi- 
ning, sea. The rower took in his oars ; and we 
were obliged to stretch ourselves out in the 
boat, which he guided with his hands, and we 
glided into a dark depth below the monstrous 
rocks which were laved by the great Mediter- 
ranean. I heard Lara breathe heavily ; there 
was something strangely fearful in it ; but, is 
hardly more than a moment, we were in an im- 
mensely large vault, where all gleamed like ths 
ether. The water below us was like a blue 
burning fire, which lighted up the whole. All 
around was cloud ; but below the w 7 ater, the 
little opening by which we had entered prolong- 
ed itself almost to the bottom of the sea. to 


124 


THE IMPROVISATORE. 


forty fathoms in depth, and expanded itself to 
about the same width. By this means the 
strong sunshine outside threw a light within 
upon the floor of the grotto, and streaming in 
now like a fire through the blue water, seemed 
to change it into burning spirits of wine. Every 
thing gave back the reflection of this ; the 
rocky arch — all seemed as if formed of consoli- 
dated air, and to dissolve away into it. The 
water-drops which were thrown up by the mo- 
tion of the oars, dropped red, as if they had 
been fresh rose leaves. 

It was a fairy world, the strange realm of the 
mind. Lara folded her hands ; her thoughts 
were like mine. Here, had we been once be- 
fore — here, had the sea-robbers forgotten their 
treasure, when no one ventured to approach the 
spot. Now was every supernatural appearance 
cleared uo in reality, or reality had passed over 


into the spiritual world, as it does aLvays hers 
in human life, when every thing, from the seed 
of the flower to our own immortal souls, ap- 
pears a miracle ; and yet man will not believe 
in miracles ! 

' The little opening to the cave which had 
shone like a clear star was now darkened for a 
moment, and then the other boats seemed to 
ascend as if from the deep. They came in to 
us. All was contemplation and devotion. The 
Protestant, as well as the Catholic, felt here 
that miracles still exist. 

“ The water rises !” said one of the seamen. 
“ We must go out, or else the opening will be 
closed , and then we shall have to remain here 
till the water falls again !” 

We left the singularly beaming cave; the 
great open sea lay outstretched before us, and 
behind us the dark opening of the grotto Ajhevj*. 


THB BUD. 


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CHARLES LEVER’S NOVELS. 


Barrington. 

8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

One of Them. 

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A Day’s Bide. 

A Life’s Romance. 8vo, Paper, 62 cents. 

Gerald Fitzgerald, “ The Chevalier.” 

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Glencore and his Fortunes. 

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Franklin Square, New York, February 2, 1863. 



Harpers Magazine for February , 1863 . 




Besides the Serial Novels by the Authors of “Adam Bede” and “Orley Farm,” 
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I LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS, i 


FROM THE DANISH OF 


HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 


BY MARY IIOWITT 




ALL THE WORKS IN THIS SERIES ARE / 

Unabridged and Unaltered. 


THE NEW NOVELS 

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